


Family Christmas

by 221bBakerStreet221b



Series: Little Brothers Mine [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidents, Age Play, Age Regression, Comfort/Angst, Desperation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Little Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Thumb-sucking, Wetting, pull ups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-10-16 07:31:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17545364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bBakerStreet221b/pseuds/221bBakerStreet221b
Summary: The boys are going their separate ways for Christmas--Greg and John are planning to visit their families while Mycroft drags Sherlock to their parents' house.  But after a string of busy weeks with no time for ageplay, Sherlock and John are struggling to stay adult in the midst of holiday traditions and emotions.





	1. Christmas Eve Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Loves,
> 
> I will be updating A Little Training soon! In the mean time, have a new story about the boys struggling against headspace around the holidays. I was hoping to have it fully completed before I posted, but it's been far too long since you lovely readers have heard from me, so take a few chapters now and I will work on the rest as soon as I can!
> 
> Feel free to leave suggestions. I had a very early draft of this story written two years ago, so I developed and cleaned it up in order to post when I stumbled across it again. It also fits a request a reader gave about Sherlock having to hide his littleness while around others. 
> 
> I hope you are all well!
> 
> xoxo

Neither of the Holmes brothers found holiday celebrations akin to anything but insufferable annoyances. Usually, they managed adequate enough excuses to keep themselves from shared dinners and small talk with insidious distant relatives. But their mother insisted on their presence at Christmas, rationalizing that they owed her at least one day of togetherness given how difficult it was to pin them down throughout the year and promising to keep things small, just the four of them. 

Sherlock often went through the pointless charade of refusal, excusing himself with what even their father could categorize as flimsy excuses and downright lies. This year had been no different, Sherlock begging off as early as mid-November. 

Mycroft chose not to engage with Sherlock’s little tantrums about family Christmas. They both knew he was not about to trudge alone through turkey dinner and complaints from his mother that he did not call often enough, nor was he about to let Sherlock spend a solitary Christmas in his dingy flat. So it was a surprise to neither of them when Mycroft showed up at 221b Baker Street early on the morning of Christmas Eve. 

“Let’s go,” he’d said to a tousle-haired Sherlock angry at being woken before sunrise. “Pack a bag.”

Sherlock looked as if he were about to argue for only a moment before turning on his heels to trudge up the stairs, through the kitchen, and into his bedroom, Mycroft following close behind to supervise.

They both knew Mycroft could very well have arrived later in the day, and they both knew he was hoping the early-morning wake-up call would catch Sherlock at his most pliable; experience had made it abundantly clear that Sherlock was most compliant when especially tired, whether little or adult.

“Didn’t trust your own ability to weasel yourself out of this one?” Mycroft asked, smirking at the fully packed suitcase which sat beside the bureau in Sherlock’s bedroom. 

“John made me,” Sherlock mumbled, rubbing at an eye and edging closer to his bed and its rumpled bedclothes. 

Mycroft hummed, yanked Sherlock by the upper arm before he could collapse back onto the mattress, pointed him towards the wardrobe, and told him to put on something more presentable. He could not very well show up to Christmas Eve dinner in his rumbled t-shirt and sleep pants.

Mycroft lifted the suitcase from the floor and crossed back through the flat. 

“John? I’m stealing Sherlock away until Wednesday,” he called upstairs to a presumably sleeping Doctor Watson. “Call me or Greg if you need anything.”

It went unspoken that it had been too long since the boys were young. There had been a string of four overlapping cases--one or two of which Mycroft may have sent their way as a means of keeping them distracted while he himself handled a rather trying workload--which had kept them busy since the end of November. He and Greg had intended to allow time for them to be small before the holidays hit, knowing family gatherings did not exactly inspire emotional constancy. But Sherlock and John had taken on another case to help out Greg, Mycroft had been distracted by government affairs, and, as a result, the men had gone over a month without any time for ageplay. 

“John?” Mycroft called, knowing if he had to go upstairs it would be that much harder to get Sherlock out of the flat because he would almost certainly take the opportunity to crawl back into bed.

John was leaving for his sister’s later that day, and although Greg had told Mycroft to remain optimistic, he couldn’t help but let precedent dictate his feeling that the man was about to have his hopes for Harriet’s sobriety dashed. He and Sherlock had invited John to Christmas at their parents’, and Greg had invited him to his own family’s celebrations, but John had insisted on accepting Harry’s invite, trusting his sister’s assurances that she had her life back on track, that she was looking forward to John meeting her new girlfriend.

“John Hamish Watson, answer me please,” Mycroft called in warning, treading the line between friend and caregiver as a means to an end. 

“Yeah, okay,” John called after a moment, reply muffled. He was characteristically aggravated at being woken, which caused Mycroft to smirk fondly. “I heard you, Mycroft.”

He could picture the doctor: still half-asleep and quite likely cocooned beneath the tousled blankets, face drawn and lined from sleep. He had half a mind to climb the steps and check on him, worried the man was not prepared for his trip back home. But he couldn’t coddle if he expected them to remain adult, and he had to get Sherlock out of the house while the man was still half-agreeable.

“Call if you need anything,” Mycroft reminded him, unable to keep from a bit of mother-henning. “And get up and take a shower before you miss your train.” 

When Mycroft turned from the stairs he found Sherlock at his shoulder, coat on but still dressed in his pajamas. He sighed but chose not to insist, simply turning to lead his brother outside. As long as he got Sherlock to their parents’ house in the country in one piece, he’d consider it a job well done. 

Sherlock climbed into the car and immediately folded himself up in the passenger seat, yawning as he rubbed at an eye. 

“Seatbelt,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock shook his head, which he'd rested against his raised knees before closing his eyes. Mycroft sighed, then reached across his brother to find the seatbelt himself. 

"Don't," Sherlock whined when Mycroft eased his knees from where they were pressed against his chest in order to get the strap in place. 

As soon as Mycroft had it clicked, Sherlock curled in on himself once more. 

It was a gray day, cloudy and cold even for London in December, and Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him as he hugged his knees. Mycroft blasted the heat, knowing his brother would become moodier if he were uncomfortable and hoping the man might settle into sleep once the shock of being pulled from a warm bed and out into a cold car had been driven from his bones. 

“Don’t want to go,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft refrained from teasing that his brother was a bit too late for protest given that he was buckled into a car at the beginning of a four and a half hour journey out of London. 

“Try to get some sleep,” was all Mycroft said.

He turned on a political talk-radio station as he pulled away from Baker Street, feeling a sense of accomplishment knowing that he’d successfully managed to get Sherlock out of the house without more than a bit of token protestation. It had been far too long since he’d been able to spend any significant length of time with his brother, and while his heart worried for John, he was content to know that Sherlock would at least be in his sights for a few days.

Sherlock was close to sleep by the time they had shifted out of the city proper and onto the expressway towards the countryside. But as Mycroft shifted lanes, he noticed Sherlock’s hand suspiciously close to his mouth. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said in warning after a clearing of his throat, glancing at his brother in the passenger seat with a bit of surprise. “None of that, now.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock argued with a whine, twisting himself farther away from Mycroft and hiding his face against the window so Mycroft would not have been able to see thumb-sucking even if it were happening. 

Mycroft knew they’d gone too long. Even Greg had worried about Sherlock being able to stay adult in Mycroft’s presence during the trip, having seen some telling warning signs over the ending days of their last case that generally signalled the man was in the early stages of slipping.

_“You’ll need to keep an eye out,” Greg had said. “Both of them have been overworking themselves. They’re bound to regress, soon, whether they want to or not.”_

__

__

_“Let’s just get them through Christmas,” Mycroft had said, knowing they would all have a lull in workloads between Christmas and the New Year where they could settle down with coloring books and pacifiers. “Then we’ll get them small.”_

Now, however, Mycroft wasn’t so sure Sherlock would last that long. There was an edginess to Sherlock that he’d seen far too often, an edginess that meant Sherlock was already fighting headspace. 

“You need to stay big, Sherlock,” he said, bluntness winning out over any tactful desire to speak in coded suggestions.

“I am,” Sherlock snapped, tellingly sounding more disgruntled teenager than adult man. He kicked his legs down off of the seat and crossed his arms over his chest, letting his scarf--which he'd been clutching as if it were a comfort item--fall to his lap. “Leave me alone.”

The timing of Sherlock’s looming regression could not have been worse. Sherlock had made strides in headspace by letting Greg and John in on the equation, but he wasn’t about to welcome other observers, least of all the Holmes brothers’ rather conservative parents. 

Mycroft did what he could to school his frustration. Sherlock was not choosing to slip; he was overworked and overtired, and anxiety about the visit to their parents and, more likely than not, about being away from what had become the stabilizing presence of John, was likely not helping his little brother remain level-headed. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Mycroft said, softening. “I’ll be there with you the whole time.”

Sherlock turned to glare at him.

“I told you to leave me alone,” he said.

Sherlock’s tone of voice implied not only that he had abandoned the prospect of additional attempts at sleep, but also that Mycroft was somehow implicated in the decision. 

There was a part of Mycroft that wanted to call off the entire trip in favor of taking Sherlock back to his flat to coddle him and show him that he could behave just as young as he needed to, to intercept John before he caught his flight and convince Greg to beg off of his Christmas party so he could help Mycroft bundle the boys in red and green pajamas and give them warm milk and watch them open presents and bake cookies for Santa. 

But now was not the time. Sherlock was right. Mycroft needed to keep himself from Daddy-mode. He reached to turn up the radio and focused on the drive.


	2. Travel Trouble

They were two hours into the trip, and Mycroft was not doing a very good job of keeping himself from frustration. Sherlock had been quietly moody for a blessed forty-five minutes, leaving Mycroft with his thoughts and a quiet morning drive, but his little brother had soon started grumbling about the traffic they’d hit and the boredom he felt, shifting in his seat and complaining about the length of the drive. He spent long minutes kicking against the footwell and incessantly changing the radio station before attempting to distract himself with his phone, and when that proved futile he took up complaining and whining once more in an endless cycle that was testing Mycroft’s last nerve. 

Were Sherlock young, Mycroft would have threatened a spanking long ago or pulled off to the side of the road and cradled him in his lap until he felt comfortable telling Mycroft what was wrong. But neither of those options were available to Mycroft at the moment. Both coddling and tough love had the potential to aid in Sherlock’s regression, something Mycroft was trying very hard to steer away from. This meant he was left with few options but disinterest, which was proving rather a challenge given Sherlock’s frustrating, distracting display. 

“I’ll stop at the next service station,” Mycroft said when he noticed the way Sherlock’s kicking of the footwell was accompanied by a tell-tale fidgeting. 

Mycroft doubted Sherlock had gone to the loo since the night before. Road trips and Sherlock’s bladder were not friends; Mycroft had learned from a very young age to be observant when in the car with his little brother. 

Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat and cleared his throat.

“I don’t need to go,” he said, staring straight ahead at the road before them.

“Adults have a need for the loo, too, brother mine,” Mycroft said, feel his patience with his brother slip. For a man insisting that he wasn’t acting the toddler, he was certainly putting on a good show of it. “You’re not a child for needing a piss.”

“I don’t need a piss,” Sherlock argued, still refusing to look at Mycroft. “But if you’re caught short and need the services, be my guest, _brother mine_.”

It was because of Sherlock’s snarkiness that Mycroft ignored his better judgement and drove beyond the service station. If Sherlock wasn’t going to own up to needing a wee, Mycroft was certainly not going to force him. He wasn’t Sherlock’s caretaker at the moment, as Sherlock was so pointedly making clear.

But soon Sherlock was breathing heavily, sneaking grabs to his crotch when he thought Mycroft was distracted by driving. Mycroft cursed his brother’s stubbornness and gave up on his own, vowing to stop at the next service station and force the kid--because, yes, at the moment Sherlock was indeed acting more child than adult--to pee. If the whimpering and shifting hips were anything to go by, they were in danger of Sherlock wetting himself, and Mycroft was fairly certain the embarrassment alone would send the man little.

“Get inside before you disgrace yourself,” Mycroft said as he pulled into the parking lot of the expressway rest stop. 

Anxiety had shifted him into harshness, and he had had quite enough of Sherlock’s ridiculousness for the day. He threw open his own door to stretch his legs. He needed some air. 

“Christ, Sherlock, stop playing around and get inside,” Mycroft said in exasperation when he noticed that Sherlock did not move. He crossed around the car and yanked open the passenger door of the SUV. “You can’t do this here. Go use the loo.” 

Sherlock was staring at the footwell, hands in his lap and sitting stiffly. 

“I don’t have to,” he said, glancing up at Mycroft for only a moment before his gaze returned to the ground.

Mycroft was done with Sherlock’s antics. 

“Stop this charade,” he said, nearly caustic as he took hold of Sherlock’s upper arm. “Your pride isn’t worth pissing yourself.”

“Stop, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as Mycroft began pulling him out of the car. “I don’t need the loo.”

“You’ve been squirming around desperate for the last half hour,” Mycroft argued, struggling as Sherlock tried to push him away. “You think I don’t know when you’re at your limit?”

“Mycroft, I don’t have to, just leave me alone and let’s keep driving. I’m fine.”

“I’ve had enough, Sherlock. You’ve been a brat all day, and--”

“Stop, My! Let go of me!”

“--I’m tried of putting up with your childishness, William Sherlock.”

“Get off of me, Mycroft!” Sherlock said, sending Mycroft stumbling backwards with an aggressive shove. “I don’t have to go!”

Mycroft was taken aback by his brother’s physicality, but when he glanced back in anger he was met with tears in the kid’s eyes.

“Sherlock?” he asked, approaching this time with concern. 

Sherlock’s gaze was back on the footwell, feet shifting nervously, and Mycroft could see that his cheeks were pink with embarrassment. 

“Sherlock, tell me what’s wrong.” 

There was a sniffling pause, and when Sherlock spoke, his voice was timid and small. 

“I went already,” Sherlock mumbled, pressing the heels of his hands against the tears threatening to fall. 

Mycroft sighed. He knew Sherlock had been desperate, but he hadn’t guessed the kid had already wet himself. Mycroft’s plan for indifference clearly needed to be amended. He moved to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s hunched shoulders.

“You’re wearing a pull-up?” Mycroft clarified, not seeing any wetness spread across the seat or Sherlock’s pajama trousers.

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft now understood why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to change out of his pajamas for the car ride. He must have been feeling rather vulnerable to want to wear his nighttime pull-up on the car ride. 

“Sorry, My,” Sherlock said, letting his head fall against Mycroft’s chest. “I promise I didn’t mean to.” 

Mycroft shushed Sherlock’s tears, suddenly ashamed of himself for being so intent on Sherlock remaining adult. If Sherlock needed to be small, who was Mycroft to make him feel as if that were wrong? Yes, they were heading to visit their parents, but that didn’t mean Sherlock couldn’t have been small on the ride there. Hell, if Sherlock wanted to be small _while_ at their parents’, who was Mycroft to stand in his way? He had made assumptions for Sherlock and had dictated how he was to behave, and that was not his place when Sherlock was out of headspace. 

“ _I’m_ sorry, bud,” Mycroft said, cupping Sherlock’s face and seeing the littleness in his shame-face expression. “It’s not my job to decide when you should be small or big. I shouldn’t have made you feel bad for needing some little time, and I shouldn’t have made you feel like you couldn’t ask for the potty when you needed it.” 

“I have to be big,” Sherlock said, worry lines creasing his forehead as he wiped at a tearful eye with the back of his wrist. 

“Only if you want to be,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock looked unsure.

“Let’s talk once you’re cleaned up, little one,” Mycroft said. “Have you finished your wee?”

Sherlock’s cheeks reddened once more, and he shook his head.

“Okay, no problem. Let me get your suitcase, and we’ll head inside to the loo so you can finish up, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, squirming when Mycroft helped him out of the car. Mycroft moved quickly to the boot of the rental car, retrieving Sherlock’s overnight bag before crossing back to the boy, who was shifting his weight where he stood beside the passenger door and had a hand pressed between his legs.

“Let’s go, kiddo,” Mycroft said, taking his hand.

But Sherlock stayed where he was. 

“I’m weeing, Mycroft,” he whispered, glancing down to where he was grabbing at the front of his pull-up. “I can’t hold it.”

Mycroft ran a thumb along the back of Sherlock’s hand to comfort the boy. 

“Okay, bud,” he said. “That’s okay. Just finish up and we’ll get you all sorted.” 

He wasn’t surprised when the pull-up began to leak, trickling down the inseam of Sherlock’s pajama trousers, but Sherlock certainly seemed to be distraught, whimpering as he did a frantic potty dance in an attempt to put an end to the accident. 

“You’re okay,” Mycroft assured him again. “Your coat will cover it, buddy. No tears, okay?”

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft with glassy eyes, and nodded. 

“Sorry, My,” he said, reaching to rub against the wetness on his trousers as if he could make it go away. 

Mycroft could not help but allow the boy a bit of comfort. He reached his arms around the boy, who pressed his face against his shoulder with a sniffle. 

“No real harm done, buddy,” he said. “You all finished?”

Sherlock nodded, and his eyes were far younger than Mycroft had seen in quite some time. If Sherlock did want to age up again before arriving at their parents, it was going to be quite the task. But Mycroft was choosing to focus on the problem at hand; they would deal with their parents when the time came. 

He got them closed into a family restroom stall, where he sent the boy to “try to potty” one more time as he unhooked the diaper changing table from where it was latched onto the wall.

“No, My,” Sherlock said, voice small, almost injured. “Big boy.”

Sherlock was staring at the plastic changing table with worry. 

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” Mycroft said, setting Sherlock’s overnight bag on the table as he turned to reassure the boy. “I just didn’t want to put your bag on the dirty floor. I know you’re a big boy.”

Sherlock seemed satisfied, and once he was done weeing and had torn off the soaked pull-up, he stood patiently while Mycroft cleaned him up with wet paper towels. Mycroft had ignored the instinct early that morning which had told him to bring along wet wipes and spare pull-ups, somehow rationalizing that Sherlock would be more likely to slip were Mycroft to prepare for his younger headspaces. But Mycroft could see now how foolish it had been. Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable, and all Mycroft could offer him was clean-up with cheap paper towels.

“Did you bring any pull-ups, kiddo?” he asked, rooting around in Sherlock’s bag.

Sherlock shook his head, looking close to tears once more.

“Hey, hey, no tears now,” Mycroft said. “That’s no problem. We’ll put you in your big boy undies and then figure out next steps, okay?”

Sherlock sniffled and nodded, allowed himself to be dressed in dry pants and trousers, then obeyed when Mycroft asked him to wash his hands. Mycroft led him back to the rental car, where he settled him back in the passenger seat.

“Okay, we have a few decisions to make,” Mycroft began. “First, you need to decide if you’d like to be little for Christmas.”

Sherlock turned to Mycroft with wide, incredulous eyes. 

“No,” he said, a flash of adult Sherlock emerging from the haze of his littleness. “No, I can’t do that. I don’t want them to know.”

“Fair enough,” Mycroft said, a bit relieved that he was not going to need to facilitate a conversation regarding ageplay with his parents. “Then my second question is: would you like to be little for the rest of the car ride?”

Sherlock became shy once more, shrugging one shoulder as he fiddled with a button on his coat. 

“Dunno,” he said. “Is that okay?”

Mycroft reached to take Sherlock’s hand, cursing himself for not seeing earlier just how much Sherlock was struggling. The poor thing was clearly desperate for some time to be small. 

“That’s more than okay, Sherlock,” he said. “But you know it may be harder to age up once you allow yourself the time. Do you understand that?”

Sherlock seemed to consider this, then nodded.

“Go home, My?” Sherlock asked, and once again Mycroft could see that this was not all little Sherlock; there was the hint of the adult here, well-aware at his attempts at manipulation. 

“I’m sorry, bud, but we’re expected. We need to stay at least until after lunch on Christmas day.”

Sherlock pouted, but did not put up much more of a fuss. 

“Can I be small for just a little bit?” Sherlock asked, tentative. “And then you’ll help me get big again?”

Mycroft hummed his agreement. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Can I… can I suck my thumb?”

Mycroft knew his denying Sherlock would settle the boy deeper into headspace by gently humiliating him, something Sherlock often craved. But he also knew they had little by way of comfort items for a regressed Sherlock, and that if the boy were going to make the most out of the short amount of time they had, he would need to allow himself a bit of indulgence. 

“You know you’re too big for thumb sucking,” Mycroft said, causing Sherlock to look effectively chagrined. “But I know it’s been a hard day, so I’ll allow it.”

Sherlock smiled and lay his head against Mycroft’s forearm where it rested on the center console, a sign of affection and gratitude. 

“Try to get some rest,” Mycroft said, brushing the curls from the boy’s forehead in a reciprocal show of gentleness. “I’ll wake you when we’re close.”


	3. Christmas Countdown

Sherlock was restless, twitching one foot of his crossed leg incessantly as his mother bustled around the living room passing out gifts. He tossed his gift to the coffee table with a dismissive flourish of his hand. Sweater. On Christmas Eve, there were always sweaters, scratchy and woolen and wrapped in last year’s gift wrap.

Another 18 hours and 16 minutes, Sherlock calculated, glancing at the clock hung over his mother’s doctorate diploma. 18 hours and 16 minutes until it would be 4pm tomorrow and he and Mycroft would finally be justified in leaving their parents’ house for the safety of London. Even the long drive seemed welcomed at this point, if it meant he was on the downhill sprint away from Christmas with his parents. 

“Well, at least open it, Sherlock,” his mother implored, crossing back to the kitchen to take the whistling kettle from the stove. “For tradition’s sake, if nothing else.” 

No matter how old he got, at home with his parents he felt young and constantly watched, nothing more than a larger version of the child he had been while growing up. 

Sherlock sighed, catching Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and reaching for the lumpy parcel, which he tore into with mock enthusiasm. His gifted sweater was cable knit, an oatmeal color that made him think of John. What he wouldn’t give for his boyfriend’s sure, steady presence at the moment. Mycroft’s was navy blue, a sort of hardy, thick-wooled garment that would serve him rather well, were he a sea captain. Mycroft made a sarcastic sound of amazement before tossing the sweater and crumbled gift wrap onto the arm of his chair. Sherlock followed suit, sinking down into his chair and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. 

He wanted to be anywhere other than his parents’ house in the country on Christmas Eve. He wanted to be anywhere he didn’t have to feign interest and affection and adulthood. 

“Move your feet, grumpy boy,” his mother said, setting down a tea tray after Sherlock grumbled and sat up taller in the armchair, feet on the carpet he used to crawl around on with his father as they built a train for around the Christmas tree. 

His parents’ house at the holidays was always the same, all lit fireplaces and twinkling lights and peppermint hot chocolate. It was an environment that, in other circumstances, may have been a comforting respite from the chaos of the cases he and John had just finished. But, at the moment, it was an environment that did nothing to alleviate the burgeoning little headspace Sherlock had been fighting since the night before, when John had pulled the test tubes from his hands to make him go pack a suitcase, giving him a quick swat on the arse as he went since the doctor had been asking for the better part of two hours.

Sherlock’s mother did nothing to eradicate the problem, consistently using pet names and nicknames with both himself and Mycroft, asking them to help her decorate Christmas biscuits, even insisting that they all watch claymation Christmas films _just like when you were little boys_. 

Sherlock had found himself embarrassingly enamored with the films, the little boy Mycroft had allowed him to be for most of the car ride not far from the surface as night settled around them in the living room. If it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s well-timed clearing of the throat after Sherlock had actually giggled at a magical turn of events in the film, Sherlock may have failed completely in his desire to hide his little self from his parents. 

Generally, the work kept his longings at bay, distracted him enough to leave the pull of soft clothing and colorful pacifiers by the wayside as he raced against clocks and allowed himself to be absorbed into minutiae. But there had been whispers of need as their last case was winding down, and, in the lead-up to the prospect of Christmas at his parents’--a Christmas at his parents’ without John--Sherlock had no longer been able to ignore his desire to be small. 

He and John had been composed and competent for a month, had solved cases faster than even Sherlock himself had estimated, and all without so much as a pause for naptime. He just wanted John and his plushies and to be told not to suck his thumb and for Mycroft to make decisions for him. 

Sherlock watched the clock and forced himself to sit still in his seat as their father began playing christmas carols on the piano. He prided himself on remaining in control; he may be vacillating between wanting to kick over the coffee table in a huff and wanting to throw himself into Mycroft’s lap to cry, but he would not lose control. 

17 hours and 26 minutes. 

He was restless, desperate for the time he could be excused upstairs and closed in the safety of his old room. 

17 hours, 25 minutes and 22 seconds. 

He was exceedingly grateful that Mycroft seemed to sense Sherlock’s wavering confidence. He gave their father polite applause after a rather long piano piece, effectively putting an end to the impromptu concert. 

“It’s been a long day,” Mycroft said at once, placing his long-since-empty bourbon glass on the coffee table--two and a half refills; Sherlock had been surprised it hadn’t been more. “Why don’t we reconvene in the morning?”

“Yes, poor Sherly looks as if he’s about to drop on his feet,” their mother said, crossing back into the living room as she dried her hands on a dish towel. She moved to the couch and kissed first Mycroft and then Sherlock--who could not help but try to squirm away from the forced affection at the moment--on the forehead. “Get on upstairs, both of you.”

“No staying up late, boys,” their father joked from his seat on the piano bench, often tending towards maudlin when Mycroft and Sherlock were back under his roof. “Father Christmas won’t come unless you’re asleep like all nice children.”

“That’s right,” their mother said, passing their gifted sweaters into their hands as she laughed at their father’s levity. “You wouldn’t want us to have to tell Santa that you’ve been naughty this year, would you?”

Sherlock felt his cheeks go pink at his parents’ tones. He glanced at Mycroft, nervous he’d done something to clue their parents in to his burgeoning headspace, nervous that they were speaking to them like children because they’d figured out that that was exactly what Sherlock was feeling like at the moment, but Mycroft shook his head, silently reassuring Sherlock. 

“Do you think you could manage to view us as grown men some time before we’re in the retirement home?” Mycroft asked, eyebrow raised in a tired exasperation.

“Oh, shush,” their mother said, hitting Mycroft softly on the arm with her dishcloth. “Let your old parents enjoy their nostalgia, won’t you? At least we're not insisting on reading you _The Night Before Christmas_ as we send you off to bed.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and bid them goodnight, leaning over to kiss their mother on the cheek as he gave in to her sentiment before turning down the hall to trudge up the stairs. Sherlock was all too happy to follow close behind. 

“Is it any wonder I’ve a tendency to act the child?” Sherlock asked when he and Mycroft stood in the hallway, just outside their bedroom doors. “I’m surprised you’re not the one stuck in childhood. You’ve been exposed to their coddling for longer than I have.”

“Eldest child,” Mycroft reminded Sherlock. “Statistically, parents most favor discipline and structure over indulgence in direct correlation to the birth order of their children.” 

“Goodnight, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he rolled his eyes at his brothers pedantics. “Wake me when Christmas is long over.” 

Another 17 hours and 12 minutes, Sherlock hypothesized. 17 hours and 12 minutes before they would be heading back to the safety of London, where Sherlock intended to be moody and needy and blissfully small for days. Maybe John would even feel up for babying him, something they hadn’t done in quite some time. If not, they would go to Mycroft’s or even Greg’s, Sherlock would wet his pants again and again until Mycroft put him in diapers, and Sherlock would let John be the big brother for a while--big sister if he preferred. 

He turned towards his bedroom, little of which had been changed since he had left for uni, but Mycroft stopped him.

“Sherlock?” he asked, and when Sherlock turned to him, his big brother was looking at him searchingly. 

“What is it, Mycroft?” he asked, turning with effort, as if it were some great hardship to share his brother’s company. Which, given that Mycroft’s concerned presence had been reminding Sherlock of what it was like to be small and looked after all day, it was.

“I’m down the hall if you need me,” he said, but Sherlock waved him off. 

He couldn’t convince Mycroft that he was fully adult; his brother knew too well how he’d behaved earlier that day. But he could try to convince him he was handling his struggle well enough to remain mostly adult. And, in the process, maybe he could convince himself as well. 

“Goodnight, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, turning once more and grateful when his brother did nothing but wish him goodnight in return.

Sherlock closed himself in his old bedroom, collapsing onto the narrow old mattress and not missing the crinkling of the old plastic sheet that had never been removed. It calmed Sherlock rather than embarrassed him, and he allowed himself a quick moment of comfort, hugging his gifted sweater--it really did seem like something John would wear on a quiet Sunday morning at Baker Street--to his chest and allowing the knuckle of a finger to make its way into his mouth. 

17 hours and 8 minutes, but at least the next seven to eight of those could be spent closed away from the others--nine if he pretended to sleep in, a ploy that wouldn’t work on Mycroft but could very well work on his parents, who were far less familiar with Sherlock’s sleeping patterns. 

Feigning sleep would have to be the trend of the night; he hadn’t brought pull-ups and knew he was too close to headspace to keep his bed dry. John had suggested he bring them, told him there was no shame in it and that he was bringing some along for his own trip, that he’d better be safe than sorry. But Sherlock had been too intent on denying his shifting headspace to take heed, and had ended up shouting at John to leave him alone, something he now felt rather stupid and remorseful about. John had only been trying to help, had seen last night what Sherlock had, at that point, still been refusing to acknowledge. 

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes and stifled a yawn. He pulled out his mobile to text John, then second-guessed. John hadn’t been in touch, and Sherlock shouldn’t disturb him while he was with his sister. He wanted him to have a good visit; he knew how much it meant to John.

Shifting to his mobile’s web browser, he began scrolling for cases, chewing on the tip of his thumb as he settled in for a long, sleepless Christmas Eve.


	4. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kudos and comments, lovelies! I could use some love and encouragement this week if you're feeling up for commenting--definitely a rough few days but I'm doing all I can to stay positive!
> 
> We're turning to John and Greg for the next few chapters, seeing how they're coping with the holidays and visits with family. I have the next chapter half-written already, but let me know if there's anything in particular you'd like to see!
> 
> Hope you're all doing well <3
> 
> xoxo

John put away his mobile and began shrugging on his coat. His train was pulling into the commuter station closest to Harry’s, and he was more than ready to be on solid ground once more. 

Train travel always felt rather tedious to John; a prolonged trip with nothing to do besides gaze out the window or try not to feel dizzy while reading or scrolling through his mobile was the last thing he had wanted after the busy string of cases he and Sherlock had just finalized. But Harry had invited him, said she wanted him to meet her new girlfriend, that she was planning a big meal. John had been impressed by how put-together she sounded, how hopeful. It had made him believe they actually could have a family Christmas together, even after all these years. Brother and sister celebrating the holidays. 

“Have a nice holiday, sir,” one of the train workers said as John stepped onto the platform. 

He nodded to the man, hefting his overnight bag onto his shoulder as he began glancing for Harry’s car in the row of SUVs and sedans waiting in a line along the parking lot.  
When he didn’t see her, he took out his mobile to give her a call, not particularly surprised when she didn’t answer. She often made large-scale plans for themed dinner parties and multi-course meals when company was visiting, and although she rarely pulled them off without John or someone else stepping in to take over the multitude of steps she had forgotten, it was endearing that she made the effort. He left a quick message, telling her he had arrived and would be waiting whenever she’d finished seasoning whatever ridiculous dish she’d chosen to serve alongside the overly decorative desserts.

But half an hour and another unanswered phone call passed, John stamping his feet to keep out the chill of the December day. It was below freezing, and the clouds dark; he knew snow was expected. His phone pinged with a text message, but it was only Greg, asking if he’d made it safely to his sister’s apartment. 

John ignored the text, contemplating calling Harry for a third time before deciding to give it another five minutes. He knew from experience that Harry had never been adept at arriving places on time. 

He suspected Mycroft and Greg had divided forces for the holidays, Mycroft obviously watching over Sherlock while they were at their parents’ and Greg agreeing to keep tabs on John. He wasn’t entirely sure what had them so concerned; yes, John couldn’t help but notice some signs that Sherlock was feeling young the night before--John had practically needed to threaten a time-out before Sherlock agreed to go pack his bag for his trip with Mycroft--but John had been fully adult for over a month, doing Mycroft and Greg’s bidding. He could handle a few more days without supervision, surely.

When an hour and a half had passed and the next train let off eager riders who were quickly ushered into another string of waiting cars, John called Harry for the third time, and again received no answer. He should have let precedent guide him and asked Harry to send along her new address; at least then he could have found a cab instead of waiting, helplessly.

Greg texted again, sending a picture of himself among smiling relatives, nieces and nephews hanging off of him and a man who was clearly one of his older brothers wrapping an arm around Greg’s shoulders. Greg was smiling broadly and wearing a pair of felt reindeer antlers, clearly in his element among family and close friends. 

The snow had started in full force by the time John’s cell rang with a call from Harry. 

He fumbled with his phone and answered, straddling anger and concern.

“Harry, where the f--”

“John? It’s, uh...I’m not Harriet, I’m Cassie? Her girlfriend?”

The new girlfriend sounded nervous, overwhelmed even. And very young. Since Clara, Harry had tended towards much younger women. 

“Is she okay?” he asked, although there was more obligation than concern to the question. 

He was already beginning to piece together what had happened: a failed dinner party souffle or mismatched table setting that had sent Harry questioning herself and her competency, that had sent Harry to the liquor cabinet, rationalizing that one glass of wine couldn’t hurt. While he had been jostled on the train and waited in the cold, Harry had fallen deeper into drunkenness. 

“I, ah...she said she’s not feeling well. Said maybe you can get together for New Year?”

John did not prolong the conversation. He took the phone from his ear and, with a quick, “Yeah, alright,” hung up, hearing the girl give a pathetic “Happy Christmas” through the speaker before they disconnected.

John slipped his phone into his pocket and leaned onto his knees, letting his face fall into his hands. Why did he give her chance after chance? He should know by now that Harry was not reliable, that picking him up at the train station on time was a rather tall order for his sister. He didn’t place full blame Harry; she had been through a lot, and John knew first-hand how difficult it could be to cope at times. But that didn’t mean the whole situation hadn’t left him feeling stranded and forgotten. 

He suddenly had the urge to dig through his suitcase to find his plush rabbit stuffed at the bottom of his suitcase. Willa was pressed deep down beneath his clothes, because, okay, maybe Sherlock hadn’t been the only one feeling less than adult when they’d packed the night before. John had been trying to hide it, but it had only been the imagined instructions of Greg and Mycroft-- _out of bed, into the shower, cross town bus and onto the train, good boy _\--that had gotten him out of bed and into the city.__

__He opened his phone--the battery of which was quickly dwindling--and scrolled through the texts he'd received while waiting for Harry. Two more text messages from Greg and one from Mycroft. He hadn't had the heart to answer any of them. They hadn’t wanted him to come, worried--although they had never admitted it to his face--that he would be let down once more; John hadn't had it in him to confirm their suspicions._ _

__But the snow was falling, and his coat wasn’t warm enough. The only thing John wanted less than to find an overpriced hotel mere miles from his sister while she drank away Christmas was to get back on the stuffy, nauseating train and head back to Baker street alone..._ _

__“Are you alright?” Greg asked after the first ring. “Where are you?”_ _

__John’s throat was tight. He could no longer ignore the fact that he was feeling a bit young, not when faced with the prospect of being abandoned on a cold metal bench miles from home._ _

__“Can you come get me?” he asked, cheeks reddening with embarrassment through the pink from the cold wind._ _

__“I’m leaving right now,” Greg said immediately. “Send me your location.”_ _

__John nodded, then realized he would need to overcome his penchant for being nonverbal when on the edge of little space so Greg would know he understood._ _

__“Okay,” he said, and then, voice smaller: “Sorry.”_ _

__“Nothing to be sorry about, kiddo,” Greg assured him, and the endearment caused John’s eyes to well with tears. “I’ll be there as soon as I can and we’ll make everything better.”_ _

__"Not small," John said, clearing his throat and willing it to be true._ _

__It was the thought of Harry close by that kept him from slipping into a younger headspace. He had spent so long caring for her that the concept of allowing himself to be cared for somehow didn’t compute when he was near her. He had learned there was no way to help her if she did not want to be helped, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty that he hadn’t pushed the girlfriend for more information, that he hadn’t demanded an address and shown up on their doorstep, ready to pour every last drop of liquor down the drain. He was overwhelmed and caught up in worst-case-scenarios, just hoping the girlfriend would have the good sense to get Harry some help if she truly needed it._ _

__"Of course," Greg said, voice straying a bit further from babying. "I understand."_ _

__John told Greg he would need to hang up to save his phone battery, and Greg agreed after reminding John to share his location. His brother’s house was a little more than an hour away, a fact Greg had let slip quite often in the lead-up to the holidays in a not-so-veiled hint that he would be close by should John need him while at Harry’s. John told him to drive safely, and Greg told him not to worry._ _

__John closed his phone, then sat huddled on the bench at the train station, settling in to wait. He was hungry and cold and feeling more than a little vulnerable, and if there weren’t stragglers beginning to be dropped off to wait across the platform for the next train heading into London, he may very well have pulled Willa out from his suitcase to let her keep him company._ _

__He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and willed Greg to appear._ _

__He may be stubbornly clinging to his adult self, but sometimes even grown men could do with a visit from their Papa._ _


	5. Gameplan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for your wonderful support in the comments after the last chapter. My heart was so warmed by your kindness and well-wishes, and I truly am so grateful for all of you. I'm feeling better now than I was at the beginning of this week, so thank you for helping me through a rough few days. Currently I'm doing well but am in desperate need of sleep, so I'm going to post and get some rest. I promise to respond to every comment in turn once I'm finished with work tomorrow!
> 
> This is another quick update, but I wanted to get it all to you as soon as I could as a thank you for your loveliness. You're truly all such a great group of kind souls. I may come back to edit slightly tomorrow, but, for now, enjoy! 
> 
> xoxo

Another train had come and gone before John was relieved to recognize Greg’s car in the pick-up lane in the parking lot. The past hour and a half had been filled with little more than John’s own struggles against self-deprecating thoughts--shame over abandoning Harry when she needed him, guilt over pulling Greg away from family celebrations on Christmas Eve, deep-seeded shame about the deep pull he was feeling to be young--and he was rather exhausted by the effort. 

He’d picked up his phone to call Greg only thirty minutes after speaking with him.

“On my way,” Greg said, voice too-loud as it always was when he used the bluetooth in his car. “Be there as soon as I can. Everything alright?”

“It’s, ah, it’s alright,” John had said, standing from what had become his bench over the past three hours to glance at the schedule. “There’s a train coming in forty minutes. I should have noticed before I called you, but, ah, I can take it back to London.”

“Sorry,” Greg said after clicking his tongue, voice light-hearted but firm. “This expressway only goes in one direction, I’m afraid. No turning back now.” 

“You should be with your family, Greg,” John said, a long way from sharing such a cavalier attitude.

“I’m on my way to one member of my family as we speak,” he said, sincere in the warmth of his tone. “Besides, this will give me a chance to introduce you to the good old Lestrade clan.”

John’s phone had long since dinged to tell him he was at less than ten percent battery life, so he did what he could to get the point across as concisely as possible.

“I don’t want to put you out,” John said. “I was frustrated before, overwhelmed, is all. I’ll be fine to head back to Baker Street.”

Greg was speaking before John had even finished the last sentence.

“You’re not spending Christmas alone in that flat, John. I happen to know it hasn’t been tidied since the first case in this string of five, and I’m rather not spend my Christmas picturing you eating leftover takeaway among the dirty socks and unwashed dishes, thank you very much, Dr. Watson.”

John began another protest, wanting to assure Greg that he’d be fine, that he didn’t need him at the moment, that he could be responsible and get himself home like an adult, but his phone cut him off halfway through the first phrase, battery dead.

It was rather a relief, actually, the decision taken from his hands. 

By the time he stood from the bench to lift his bag, Greg was out of the car and already jumping the steps to meet him on the platform. He immediately wrapped his arms around John, who, despite having spent the last hour and a half amping himself up towards being big, collapsed into Greg’s embrace. 

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, voice muffled against Greg’s chest. 

“You’re frozen, kiddo,” Greg said, pressing warm hands against John’s raw cheeks before reaching for John’s overnight bag and slinging it onto his shoulder. “Let’s get you into the car and warmed up.” 

John felt more comfort in Greg’s endearing ‘kiddo’ than he had all day; he had to steel himself against the wave of vulnerability that attempted to wash over him. He had already made Greg come all this way; he didn’t need to make him care for him in littlespace on top of it all. Besides, if they were heading back to Greg’s family, John could not afford to let himself get small. 

“First things first,” Greg said after cranking the heat up in the car and buckling his own seat belt. “I bet you could use the loo, huh?”

John nodded; he hadn’t gone on the train, and had started to feel the need over an hour ago. He’d been trying to keep from squirming on the station bench for the past half hour, the cold making his need rather pressing, causing him to glance around in case there was a secluded spot he could sneak away to should the matter become urgent.

Greg reached to pat John on the knee, then shifted gears and drove off, beginning to narrate the expected weather conditions and explain next steps: quick stop at a loo, on to Greg’s parent’s house for Christmas Eve supper, then to Greg’s older brother’s house to spend the night before heading back to London after lunch on Christmas Day, home by Christmas night and the Boxing Day football matches. After a morning of following schedules and solving problems, it was comforting to know that Greg was in control, that John didn’t have to make decisions for a while. 

He half-listened as Greg continued, taking comfort in the man’s voice but not having the energy to follow his train of thought explicitly. He was relieved Greg hadn’t asked questions. He didn’t feel up to explaining that he’d been waiting for close to four hours, or admitting that Harry had let him down once more, or pretending he wasn’t hurt by it all. 

He shifted in his seat, pressing his legs together as his bladder pulsed. Lately, any time he was forced to wait around with a full bladder had him veering towards headspace, wrapped up in thoughts of pull-ups and accidents. John cleared his throat and shifted to sit a bit taller, reminding himself that he was a grown man. 

“Hang tight,” Greg said, clearly well-attuned to John’s current needs. “Almost there.” 

They pulled into a service station, Greg stepping out to fill the car with gas while John was sent inside to find the loos. They weren’t what John would have called clean--Sherlock would have certainly refused to use them, already having a generalized aversion to public loos--but John did not have the luxury of being particular at the moment. 

“All set?” Greg asked when John joined him back in the car, where he was waiting in the driver’s seat once more. 

John nodded, but was unable to keep from ducking his head, afraid Greg would read into the pink tinge coming to his cheeks when he thought about the fact that he’d been very close to wetting himself, and that his pants weren’t exactly dry beneath his trousers. He shifted his coat until it covered his lap, afraid the wetness of his pants may seep onto his trousers if he weren't careful. 

“John?” Greg asked, expectant as he examined his body language.

“All set,” John said, forcing himself to tip his chin up in a show of mock-confidence.

Greg didn’t look entirely convinced, furrowing his eyebrows as he scanned John.

“I’m fine,” John said before Greg could begin prying. “Let’s go.” 

“If you need--” Greg started.

“I can’t be small right now,” John said, short in his tone. 

Greg’s face fell into concern.

“You can be whatever you need to be, champ,” he said, reaching to place his hand over one of John’s.

And here was Greg all over: more concerned about John than he was about potentially having to explain to his entire family why the man he had brought to Christmas Eve-- _no, grandma, he’s not the boyfriend; he’s the boyfriend’s little brother’s boyfriend_ \--was nonverbal and clingy and acting the toddler. John was not about to put Greg through that. No matter how much his worry about Harry had him feeling sick to his stomach, no matter how much he needed someone to calm the self-deprecating comments with cuddles and bedtime stories, no matter how much his heart leaped when Greg called him ‘kiddo,’ the Detective Inspector deserved a celebratory Christmas Eve with his family. John was not about to take that away from him; not if he could help it. 

He pulled his hand away and cleared his throat once more. 

“I’m fine, Greg,” he repeated, emphatic as he made clear eye contact with the older man. 

Greg nodded, and John was relieved he was following the boundaries John was working so hard to set, at least for the moment. It had been an emotionally charged morning, and an emotionally charged few days in the lead-up to the holidays. John fumbled his phone out of his pocket to plug it into the car charger, then let his head fall back against the seat as Greg pulled out of the service station. He just needed to make it until after lunch on Christmas Day, and then he would be more than happy to let Greg baby him to his heart’s content.


	6. Lestrade Family Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, loves! I hope you're all well and celebrating self-love first and foremost, today <3
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. The Lestrades basically appeared fully-formed in my mind, so they were easy to capture for the quick moments they have the story's focus. 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you'd like to see next :) 
> 
> xoxoxo

Christmas Eve at the Lestrades was a bustling, cheerful affair. Greg’s parents’ house was warm and inviting: crackling fireplaces in both the dining and living room, wreaths and garlands hung on doors and across mantle pieces, and no less than three Christmas trees scattered around the ground floor. Beneath the twinkling lights and glittery reindeer statuettes were pictures of Greg and his older brothers--recent pictures from commendations Greg had received after solving difficult cases or promotions his brothers had received at work, graduation photos from various university commencement ceremonies, even an elementary school picture where the photographer had caught Greg in a laugh, freckled and missing his two front teeth.

“Ignore the family photos,” Greg said in mock-horror when he caught John studying them. “My mother never met a picture she could bear to put away. We’re drowning in them at this point.” 

As soon as he had taken John by the elbow and led him away from the foyer, they were greeted with upbeat shouts announcing Greg’s return, each overlapping the last.

“Uncle Greg!” no fewer than three nieces and nephews called, rushing to Greg to be lifted or tickled or to have their hair tousled. 

“The big-shot London Detective Inspector returns!” A man who could only have been Greg’s father shouted, stepping from the crowd with his arms held out to both sides, commanding the entire room with his presence. 

Three men who could only be Greg’s brothers stepped forward, each a variation of Greg’s broad-shoulders and warm eyes, his quick smiles and scruffy jawline. It seemed at least two of them had not been present at the party before Greg had left to pick up John, for they both approached with cheerful welcomes. 

“Greggy boy!” the first smirked, clapping Greg on the back.

“Good to see you, little bro,” another said, wrapping him in a one-armed hug while balancing a wide-eyed toddler on his hip. 

“Thank god you’re back--Ma was about to bring out the board games,” a third quipped, punching Greg lightly in the shoulder. 

“Would it kill you to tell your mother you're leaving for three hours?” an older woman said, pushing her way through the men and playfully hitting Greg on the chest with a dish towel. She immediately softened, reaching to cup his jawline, smiling as he towered over her. “At least you're in time for dinner,” she said. 

“This is Doctor John Watson,” Greg said to his mother, taking John by the elbow to pull him into the circle of his closest family. “I told him Lestrade family Christmas Eve is where stragglers come for the holidays.”

Greg’s mom immediately reached to cup the back of John’s head before pulling it down onto her shoulder to swallow him in a hug. John stiffened in the familiarity of it all, still rather overwhelmed by the day’s turn of events. 

“We’re glad to have you,” she said, releasing John from the hug but placing a hand on each of his shoulders. “It’s rare we get to meet friends of Greg’s, especially such handsome ones.” 

“That’s enough, Ma,” Greg said, eyebrows raised as he chuckled at her brazenness.

“We haven’t even met the boyfriend,” one of Greg's brothers said conspiratorially, leaning close to John as if removing Greg from the conversation. “We’ve taken to calling him the mystery man.” 

“Mycroft is certainly a bit of a mystery,” John said, caught in a laugh as he tracked the blush spreading across Greg’s cheeks.

Greg ran a hand along the back of his neck, and was clearly relieved to be saved by a group of nieces and nephews clamoring for his attention. He crouched down and roared like a bear before chasing them out of the kitchen and through the living room. John tracked their shrieking laughter even over the murmur of conversations happening around the house until Greg had circled back to him. He ushered John away from his mother’s prying questions and began guiding him from group to group, introducing him to laughing uncles and smiling next-door-neighbors while the nieces and nephews--all dressed in holiday sweaters or sparkly dresses and still attempting to get their Uncle Greg’s attention--raced through groups of distant cousins visiting from abroad and coworkers socializing before they would trudge home to their own families. 

Greg’s mother forced appetizers and warm cider cocktails onto John and Greg whenever she could find them in the mass of guests, telling them to drink and have a good time.

"You boys are both too skinny," she said, pinching Greg's side. "Eat! Put some meat on those bones." 

Greg scoffed, then joked with his mother about wishing she were the one monitoring his stats when he went for his yearly physicals. 

It was all a blur of introductions and jokes and bite-sized food as the Christmas music played. John found himself desperate for the grounding presence of Greg’s grip on his elbow, afraid he’d be swallowed up in it all were he to lose contact with the taller man. He could barely keep all of Greg's family members straight, let alone neighbors and Greg's parents' friends and the multiple groups of children rushing to assess wrapped presents beneath various Christmas trees. 

“Doing okay?” Greg asked when they found themselves alone in a quiet corner. 

Among the mass of guests, Greg was been cheerful and light-hearted, clearly warmed by so many reunions with those he loved and who loved him. Alone with John, he remained bright-eyed, but his tone had become serious.

It took a moment for John to process that the man was waiting for his answer. The close bodies and sparkling christmas ornaments and the cups of warm cinnamon cider had been a distraction from any self-deprecation he had felt earlier that day. But beneath every meeting and greeting had been the underlying guilt of Harry, drunk in her new apartment, alone apart from a girlfriend obviously incapable of emotionally supporting her. He blinked up at Greg, then cleared his throat to find his voice. 

“I, ah, I think I could do with a bit of air,” he said, handing his empty cider mug to Greg. 

“I’ll come with you,” Greg said, quickly placing both his and John's mug on a sideboard table before reaching for John’s elbow once more.

“No,” John said, shifting his arm before Greg could resume his hold on him. “You stay here and socialize. I’ll be alright.”

Greg looked skeptical, but John gave him a quick smile as if to assure him all was well.

“Just need to clear my head of the noise for a moment,” he explained. “I’ll be back before your Uncle finishes his next embarrassing story of your dad when they were kids.” 

Greg breathed a laugh, then nodded, allowing John to make his way to the front foyer. 

In an inability to find his own coat in the overstuffed closet, John yanked on Greg’s. It was warmer than his own, and he was tired of the cold; he’d been frigid all day, even feeling a chill while pressing through the warm mass of bodies scattered throughout Greg’s parent’s house. 

There was a peaceful silence to the front yard that stood in sharp contrast to the drunken, cheerful revelry occurring inside. It was still snowing, thick flakes falling heavy around the house. 

John breathed in the chill quietude for a moment, then pulled his phone from his trouser pocket. Harry’s mobile went straight to voicemail. 

“I, ah...just...just calling to check in. See that you’re alright,” he said when the beep for voicemail sounded earlier than expected. “Hope you’re...well. Call me if you need anything, okay, Harry? I’m here. Happy Christmas.” 

John hung up, then dug his raw hands into the deep pockets of Greg’s jacket. There were too many differing images to choose from--Harry drunk and crying, Harry drunk and laughing as she danced from room to room, Harry drunk and angry, casting bitter quips to anyone who attempted to calm her. He was relieved when his phone pinged with a text message.

_I’m alright, Johnny_ , it read.

And then: _Sorry it didn’t work out._

John sighed, choosing to focus on relief rather than the fictitious concerns spiraling in his mind or the half-formed anger he felt when he thought about how far she had made him come before bailing. 

_Next time_ , John texted back, ultimately wanting to assuage his sister’s guilt more than he wanted to delve into the overwhelming disappointment of the situation and its predecessors. 

_Happy Christmas, big bro._

John slipped his mobile back into Greg’s pocket. His nose was running from the cold, but he stepped off the porch and began trudging down the front walk. He wasn’t ready to return to the bustling crowd inside, and, now that he wasn't stranded on a cold metal bench, he was rather enjoying being outside in the snow. Snowy weather was quiet; it always felt a bit like the world was washing itself clean. 

It was strange to be in the space where Greg and his brothers had been children, where they’d raced and practiced footie and played at firefighters. There was a wooded area about ten meters from the back porch, and John trekked through the rising snow, somehow knowing Greg would have gone exploring in the woods as a child and wanting to see all that had made Greg his caring, self-assured, quick-to-laugh self. 

\----

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been perched in the old treehouse by the time Greg found him. He’d stumbled upon the structure quickly in his short walk through the woods, and had ventured inside when he’d seen Greg's and his brothers’ initials carved on the doorframe. The structure was built only a few feet off the ground, stabilized by four trees, which the planks had been cut to accommodate, one at each corner.

“My brothers built it when I was seven,” Greg said, leaning into the treehouse from where he stood with both hands on the door frame, startling John from the close attention he had been paying to some old school textbooks and records--waterlogged and falling apart--that he’d found in the far corner. 

“It’s peaceful,” John said, listening to the trickling of a stream not far off.

“Peaceful when it’s not filled with my brothers and all the neighborhood kids squabbling and plotting war games,” Greg laughed, and then, as if remembering: “In summers we spent full days out here. Ma would send us with packed lunches and we wouldn’t go home until dinner.” 

There was a hole where a tree branch had long ago damaged the roof, so the snow was falling from the ceiling, leaving a white patch in a streak across the floorboards. John watched it falling through the criss-crossed tree branches high overhead. 

Greg took his hands from the door frame to wrap his arms around himself, making John realize the man was not wearing anything more than his sweater. John immediately began unzipping the coat he had nicked from Greg, but Greg shook his head. 

“I’m fine,” he said, smiling. “You stay warm.” 

“You were happy here,” John said, watching Greg’s expression as he eyed the trinkets and memorabilia that were the scattered reminders of his childhood. 

Greg surveyed the treehouse, leaned back to observe the height of the four trees at its corners, and then nodded, still smiling. A moment later he took in a deep breath and held a hand towards John. 

“I came to find you because dinner’s ready,” he said, breaking from the reverie. “Think you can make it through? I promise we can beg off right after. Head to my brother’s where there’s a bit more peace and quiet.” 

John nodded, scooting from the far side of the treehouse to take Greg’s hand. 

“You doing alright?” Greg asked after he’d helped him climb to the ground, still holding his hand.

John wasn't sure how he was doing. He was relieved that he had heard from Harry, relieved she had been lucid enough to hold a conversation through text. But the contrast between Greg's warm, tight-knit, and laughing family against his scattered, solitary, and uncommunicative own was disconcerting. 

“I’m doing alright,” John said, meeting Greg’s concerned gaze. “Peace and quiet will be nice.”

Greg seemed to understand, and he reached to ruffle John’s hair before pulling him bodily into a bear hug, most likely seeing the smallness John was desperately working to mask. It would all be so much easier if he could be little, chasing the rest of the kids from room to room instead of making small talk and fielding too-personal medical questions from hypochondriacal Great Aunts. 

“As soon as dessert is served,” Greg said as he leaned his cheek against John’s temple.

John appreciated timelines. He could make it until dessert was served. He just needed to smile and nod, to let the others talk. Greg would be right by his side. He would pull him away from it all if it got to be too much, would smooth over any mistakes John might make if he were to lose focus on the conversation at hand. 

He pulled away from Greg’s chest, smoothing his hair and standing a bit taller.

“If you need cheering up,” Greg said, reaching to pull his coat tighter around John, “just imagine the scene when I’m finally forced to bring Mycroft to family holidays.” 

John snorted a laugh, then caught Greg’s chuckling, and they laughed until they were breathless as Greg once more took hold of his elbow to lead him inside. 


	7. Motherly Instincts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves!
> 
> I hope you're all doing well! I know I need to get back to Sherlock and Mycroft in this story, but I'm having such fun writing about Christmas at the Lestrades. TrailsandRoses made a great point that Greg's mom would be great with the Bunny, and the idea wouldn't leave my mind until I'd written a bit along those lines, so thank you to TrailsandRoses and to all of you wonderful readers for your thoughts, ideas, and encouragement!
> 
> Also, I promise I haven't abandoned A Little Training. I will get back to that story eventually--just having a lot of fun writing this one at the moment.
> 
> Sending love and bunny kisses!
> 
> xoxo

Christmas Eve dinner was painless enough. John was surrounded by so many vivacious, talkative members of Greg’s family that a few well-timed contributions to the conversations happening around him seemed to keep anyone from realizing that he was silent more often than not. He did nearly cause a scene by choking on his chicken when he shifted attention from a conversation on his left regarding a hotly debated telly program to find Greg chatting with his brother about potty training. But Greg’s hand found its way onto John’s knee beneath the table, steadying him, and John was able to calm his heart-stopping anxiety long enough to realize that they were just chatting about his brother’s youngest son, not about John and Sherlock. 

“You’re doing well,” Greg whispered when dinner was finishing up. 

Maybe it was less than adult to allow himself to bask in just how good it felt to have his effort acknowledged, but John was too exhausted from the emotional strain of the day to give it much thought. Greg’s hand on his lower back, however, made him long for cuddles and his baby blanket. He stepped away from the touch to keep himself from the pull in his stomach telling him to collapse into Papa’s chest with a needy whine. 

The buzz of laughter and conversations as the party shifted from the dining room into the family room was a reminder of the type of family Christmas John had never experienced. His mother had tried, decorating with boughs of holly and wrapping colorful gifts for under the tree. But holidays had always set his father on edge, had always meant violence and caustic remarks and, more often than not, smashed toys and broken dinner plates and guilt-trips about expenses and holiday foolishness.

After dinner, all of Greg’s nieces and nephews were shouting about opening presents in the family room, and it became clear as gifts were passed out one by one that John and Greg would not be able to leave any time soon. They would be spending the night with Greg's older brother's family, and they couldn't very well leave before him. 

John knew Greg couldn't invite himself and John back to his brother's house prematurely. Even so, he felt his patience waning. He’d been good all day; he’d waited out in the cold for hours and then he’d been big and polite and had done nothing but smile as he met too many new people and watched Greg’s nieces and nephews play and climb on _his_ Papa and then open colorful presents in sparkly giftwrap. He just wanted Willa the rabbit and a pacifier and maybe a present of his own to open; he just wanted to be small. 

He slipped away when everyone was distracted by the suggestion that all the kids take pictures with their new toys from grandma and grandpa, something that seemed to be a Christmas Eve tradition. He found himself back in the now-empty dining room, collapsing back into the chair he had perched in with a fake smile as he'd suffered through dinner. He pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his face against them, struggling to hold back tears. He didn’t want to be there, anymore. He felt little, and he wanted Papa to come and bundle him up and take him away. 

“Oh, so sorry, dear. I was just coming to put away the good china.”

Greg’s mum was paused at the entrance to the room, a stack of plates carried in front of her and a dishtowel flung over her shoulder. John sat up straight, letting his knees fall as his feet dropped to the floor. He blinked his eyes rapidly in an attempt to keep them from looking watery. 

“I, ah--I’ll just…” John stumbled over his words as he stood from the chair, cheeks tinged pink. “Sorry. I’ll leave.”

“Nonsense,” she said, clucking her tongue as she crossed to set the dishes on the sideboard. “Sit down. Lord knows we could all use a break from the frivolity. It’s why I never let anyone else help me with the dishes--I need a little breathing room.”

John smiled at her conspiratorial tone and sat again--albeit a bit sheepishly--as she busied herself by putting away the dishes. When she’d finished, she turned to him with a smile, but when her cheer shifted into concerned, John knew he must not be doing a particularly good job of hiding his current struggle against sleepiness and sadness. 

“It really is all a bit much, isn’t it?” she asked, looking at him carefully and causing John to shift where he sat once more. Her eyes were reminiscent of Greg’s at his most caring: warm and somehow all-knowing. 

John had been struggling as the day wore on to keep his footing as a put-together adult. He willed himself to remain adult for just a few hours longer, just until he could be alone with Papa. He ran a hand down the back of his neck and cleared his throat. 

“It’s been a long day, is all,” he said, unsuccessfully attempting to keep his tone off-handed and cavalier. 

Greg’s mum seemed to assess John for a moment before taking the dish towel from her shoulder and setting it on the dining room table.

“Come on, love,” she said, nodding towards the doorway. “The kids won’t let Greg leave until he’s helped them put together their new Lego sets, and you look like you could use a bit of a break.” 

John cleared his throat and stood from the table.

“I’m alright, I’ll--”

“Just for a bit,” she said, voice firm but warm. “A little quiet time. I’ll cover for you if anyone notices you've gone.”

John knew he should pull himself together and assure Greg’s mother that he was just fine. He should suck it up and put on a brave face and trek back into the family room to wait out the rest of the evening. But, exhausted and frustrated and already tipped towards the wrong side of headspace, he found himself nodding, pleased to have the decision taken from him. She gestured for him to follow, then led him down the hallway and upstairs to a bedroom crowded with trophies and football posters. 

“The loo is just across the hall,” she told him as she turned on the bedroom light and crossed the small room to the foot of the wooden bunk bed, where she opened an antique chest and took out a woven blanket. “The bunk beds are old, but comfortable. Greg’s used to be the bottom bunk, but you can take your pick.” 

John blinked at her as she placed the blanket into his arms. 

“I’m...I’m alright,” he tried again, having second thoughts now that he was facing the prospect of being put down for a nap. “It’s really not--”

“Just a little quiet time,” she said as she plumped the pillow on the bottom bunk, repeating the phrase with the same breed of nonchalant positivity Greg used when trying to get Bunny and Sherlock to take a midday nap. 

Before John could protest, she had her hand on his shoulder and was guiding him towards the bunk beds. In the small, warm room, only the distant sounds of chatter and laughter signalled the buzz of the house below. Greg's old bedroom was quiet, and it felt so much warmer than the first floor of the house, with its drafty windows and constantly opening and closing doors as guests came and went. Going back downstairs seemed like an insurmountable task, and he was suddenly blinking back tears once more. 

"None of that, now," Greg's mum said with the click of a tongue, her voice quiet and warm. "You'll feel better after a little rest." 

He scrubbed at his eyes with a fist and climbed onto the bottom bunk, allowing her to spread the blanket over him. He longed for Willa, who was out in the cold car in his suitcase, and the thought made him want to cry again. He sniffled and pulled his knees up to his chest, only half-aware that Greg's mum was untying his shoes and slipping them from his feet. 

"There we go," she said, pulling the blanket up to rest beneath his chin. "No need for tears, right?"

"I'm sorry," John managed, his last shred of dignity causing him to cling to whatever sense of adulthood he still possessed. "It's been a long day. I...I didn't mean to get like this..." 

"No apologies, dear," she said, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "We all need a little rest from time to time." 

John opened his mouth once more, but she held up a hand to silence him before returning to the trunk at the end of the bunk bed. She rummaged around until she'd found an old black and white plush dog, which she placed on the mattress beside him before leaning down to kiss his forehead. 

"Spot will watch over you in case you need some company," she said, nodding to the plush dog with a warm smile as she crossed the room to turn out the overhead light. "And I’ll send Greg up to check on you in a little while.” 

John was grateful she left the door propped open to let in some of the light from the hallway. His heart was beating wildly, confused and concerned and afraid over letting himself slip towards Bunny in the presence of a stranger. He pulled the plush dog close, hugging it to his chest and desperately grateful for its presence, and gave in at long last to the tears that had been threatening to fall all day, which he tried to stifle by slipping his thumb into his mouth.

He didn't want it to be Christmas anymore. He just wanted to go home.

\----

Greg wrestled his nephews off of him by finding a few well-placed ticklish spots, then stood with a smirk, holding his hands out to either side of him as they tried to approach once more.

“Uncle Greg needs a bit of a break,” he said, placing his hands against his lower back as he stretched against the tightness there. “I’m going to go help Grandma get dessert ready.”

He cast a glance around the room for John--surprised to find he wasn’t in the chair where he’d last seen him--before making his way to the kitchen. His mum was taking a cherry pie out of the oven, and she set it down among an array of Christmas biscuits and apple tarts and peppermint fudge. 

“Ma, have you seen John?” Greg asked, noticing that the doorway to the hallway loo was opened with no sign of the doctor. 

His mum nodded as she turned to close the oven door before adjusting the temperature. 

“I put him down for a nap,” she said, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder as she crossed to the fridge to retrieve the Egg Nog.

Greg could not help but be taken aback. He paused, watching as she continued moving around the kitchen as if it were a normal occurrence to send a grown man to nap. 

“You what?” he asked. 

“The poor thing was exhausted,” she said, setting the Egg Nog on the table beside the plastic cups. “It’s been a long day. He wasn’t going to last much longer.” 

Greg blinked at his mother, confused. She was speaking about John the way Greg and Mycroft spoke about Bunny, referring to him as if he were fragile and in need of looking after. She was speaking as if John had been on the edge of some kind of toddler-like, overtired meltdown. A not-so-strange opinion in his everyday life, but certainly not one he was used to others sharing. 

“Ma, you can’t treat everyone like they’re your grandchildren,” Greg said with the breath of a laugh, unsure how else to gauge the situation. He leaned onto the jut of countertop where he used to eat cereal as a kid, one foot finding traction on the lowest rung of a kitchen stool as he watched her put a tray of brownies to warm in the oven. “John is a grown man.” 

His mum wiped her hands on a dishtowel before stepping close. She reached to place a hand on top of Greg's, which were folded and resting on the countertop.

“He is a grown man,” she said, nodding. Her voice was low, careful. “Except, I'm guessing there are days it's a bit too hard for him to be grown?” 

Greg stood, inadvertently separating his hands from his mother’s touch. He'd been exceedingly careful, had respected John’s wishes that his ageplaying remain as private as possible. Now, here was his mother speaking with knowledge about something Greg had shared with no one but Mycroft, Sherlock, and John. 

“Sweetheart, it’s alright,” his mother said with warmth, crossing around the counter to brush a hand against his cheek. “You’ve been asking me about picky eaters and punishments for misbehavior and schedules for toilet training for months now. Your father was convinced you’d started experimenting with women again and had gotten someone pregnant. But seeing how you are with John? Seeing how much you care for him and how much vulnerability is shadowed behind that man's eyes? I’m starting to make sense of it, I think.”

“Ma, I--” Greg tried, torn between sharing this part of his life with his mother and denying its existence to save John’s pride. 

“I won’t pretend I fully understand it,” she said, holding up a gentle hand to keep Greg from interrupting. “But I'd like to learn more. And if it’s something that makes you both happy, I’m glad you’ve found each other.”

Greg sighed and shook his head in amazement. Here was yet another example of his mother’s open-minded love. She had been a support and a champion for him and his brothers their entire lives, with them through the ups and downs of all breeds of relationships with men and women alike, encouraging them to always be exactly themselves. He should never have doubted she would be anything but accepting in this newest development of Greg’s personal life. 

“Thank you, Ma,” he said, pulling her in for a hug. “This world doesn’t deserve you, you know that?”

She laughed and cupped Greg’s cheek once more before dropping her hand and returning to her work in the kitchen.

“I only wish you’d warned me so I could have gotten an extra gift,” she said, finding serving utensils in a drawer. “The poor thing had to sit there and watch while the other kids opened their new toys.”

Greg reached for a Christmas biscuit, which caused his mum to tsk in playful disapproval. 

“I think Mycroft would murder me if I brought home any more Christmas presents,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “He’s not a proponent of what he calls my ‘spoiling the kids.’”

“A little spoiling from time to time never hurt anyone,” his mum said, passing Greg a plate for the biscuit.

Greg scoffed, broke off another bit of biscuit which he popped into his mouth, then brushed the crumbs from his hands.

“You haven’t met Sherlock,” he said with a smirk.

\----


	8. Putting the Pirate to Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update because I know you've all been waiting! I'm hoping to write more very soon but given my crazy schedule lately I'm not sure I can make any promises!
> 
> I will also respond to comments ASAP :)
> 
> Sending bunny kisses and pirate hugs! xoxoxo

Mycroft sat up in bed, casting aside the book he had been reading since he’d brought Sherlock upstairs to bed. He’d heard his parents come up to bed some time ago and had quickly flipped his bedside light off to keep them from knowing he was still awake, rolling his eyes at the sheer childishness of it all yet barely breathing again until he’d heard them settle into bed in the next room and had turned his light back on. 

Spending the night in his old bedroom was not exactly among his top five Christmas Eve activities, but at the moment he had more to worry about than the self-deprecating thoughts his old bedroom conjured within him about his teenage loneliness. He had a nearly regressed Sherlock in the other room, hadn’t heard from John at all, and Greg had been rather uncommunicative after texting that he was on his way to pick up the Bunny, responding to Mycroft’s texts with vague responses that left more questions than answers. 

Mycroft checked his phone once more. He knew Greg and John were not attempting to be intentionally vague; holidays were inherently busy, with little time to get away and communicate with those outside the immediate circumstances. Even so, as much as he’d deny it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he knew his boyfriend and his kids were all okay. 

_Status Update?_ he texted over to Greg, pleased when he could see the man was typing immediately.

He would have preferred to call, but with his parents in the next room and a rather creaky set of old stairs separating him from relative privacy downstairs, he’d decided texting would have to do for the moment. 

_Little bunny is napping upstairs_ , Greg texted. _Everyone is winding down, so I’ll get him back to my brother’s soon. He’ll be less overwhelmed._

Mycroft had more to ask about Bunny’s age and mental state, but there were some conversations best had in person. He’d had too much experience with the faulty privacy of electronic communication, and knew Greg was likely surrounded by family members who may or may not decide to get nosy as Greg texted. 

_How’s the pirate?_ Greg sent.

_In denial_ , Mycroft told him. _And struggling._

_We need to get them home_ , Greg said. And then: _that last case was too much for them._

_Don’t blame yourself. They need to get better at communicating their needs._

_Still, hurts me to see them struggling._

_I’m going to check that the pirate’s asleep_ , Mycroft told Greg. _Take care of the bunny and let me know if you need anything._

_Wish you were here with me._

Mycroft refrained from sending back a joke about Greg’s sappiness. Hell, he’d had the same thought multiple times throughout the day. Maybe he would finally agree with Greg that they should spend the holidays together and split the time between families next year. 

_I'll see you and the pirate tomorrow_ , Greg texted. _I love you._

Mycroft mimicked Greg’s _I love you_ \--and how long had it taken him to be comfortable saying _that _over text?--before placing his phone on the bedside table. He placed his hands on his lower back and stretched into them, glancing at the clock to see it was nearing eleven. He needed to check on their little pirate.__

__Mycroft knocked quietly on Sherlock’s door, then opened it to peer inside. His brother was lying in bed with the lights out, face illuminated by the blue light from his mobile. Sherlock made no attempt to move, simply shifted his glance towards the door for a moment before turning his attention back to the screen._ _

__“I’m fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, angry and irritable in a way that he only was when fighting headspace or stubbornly denying how overtired he had become._ _

__Mycroft could see it all in the boy’s face: exhaustion, sadness, even fear. And he decided he’d had enough. Their parents were asleep, and Sherlock needed a bit of comfort were he to make it through until tomorrow afternoon._ _

__“It’s bedtime, Lock,” Mycroft said, stepping into the bedroom and closing the door behind him. “You know you’re not supposed to have your phone when you’re little.”_ _

__“I’m not,” Sherlock glared, protesting his headspace despite the smallness written all over his curled-up body. “Leave me alone.”_ _

__Mycroft considered threatening punishments until Sherlock handed over the phone. But Greg’s presence was in his mind. Greg was always so skilled at helping the boys shift into headspace when they needed it. Mycroft generally waited for them to work it out on their own and then stepped in when he could. But, this time, he knew he didn’t have the luxury of letting Sherlock work it out on his own. Channelling Greg, he took a seat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed._ _

__“It’s been a hard day, huh, kiddo?” he asked._ _

__Sherlock blinked back at him, skeptical for a moment. But then he nodded, slowly._ _

__“You’ve been very well behaved today.”_ _

__“Mycroft…” Sherlock began, clearly uncomfortable given that he was not yet regressed. He turned back to his phone, attempting to separate himself from Mycroft’s coddling._ _

__“I’m proud of you.”_ _

__That seemed to get little Sherlock’s attention. The boy was uncomfortable with praise of most kind, but he often couldn’t help but feel warmed by his brother’s approval. He turned to glance once more up at Mycroft, and then, after a moment, passed over his phone._ _

__“Good boy,” Mycroft said, pocketing the boy’s mobile. “Now, I think it’s time for all good boys to get some sleep.”_ _

__Sherlock whined a bit and shook his head._ _

__“Not tired,” he said, voice small at last._ _

__“Why don’t we get you in some pajamas and find Dimitri and then see how you feel, alright?”_ _

__Sherlock’s mouth turned down into a frown._ _

__“Dimitri isn’t here,” he said, and Mycroft could see, even in the dark, that the boy’s eyes were watering. “He’s all alone and scared and probably sad I left him at Baker street.”_ _

__Mycroft ran a hand down the boy’s back._ _

__“I think Dimitri will be happy to know you cared about him so much you did everything you could to keep him safe and sound at home.”_ _

__And then Sherlock’s tears spilled over._ _

__“I want to go home, My,” he said through sniffles. “It’s scary here.”_ _

__Mycroft gathered his brother into his arms, cradling him to his chest. Their parents’ house was certainly not filled with terrors for the boy, but it was understandable that the prospect of feeling young while within it had the boy on edge._ _

__“I know, bud,” he said. “It’s been a long day and you’ve done so well. You just have to hold on a little bit longer. You’ll feel better once we get you to bed.”_ _

__Sherlock shook his head, a fresh set of tears beginning._ _

__“But what if…” Sherlock began, letting his train of thought remain unfinished._ _

__Mycroft sighed. It didn’t take a consulting detective to realize that Sherlock was afraid of wetting the bed._ _

__“You didn’t bring any pull-ups?” Mycroft aksed, but he already knew the answer. If Sherlock had been too nervous to bring his stuffed dinosaur, something he was known to cuddle while watching telly even when adult, he certainly wouldn’t have been bold enough to bring any sort of protection._ _

__Sherlock shook his head, cheeks pinking._ _

__“John told me to,” he said, voice small. “Didn’t listen.”_ _

__They had few options. Mycroft could attempt to get to a pharmacy, but it was past 11, and he was sure nowhere in the area would be open so late on Christmas Eve. The boy had worn pull-ups to bed as a kid and even a teenager, but he’d begun refusing after his fifteenth birthday, and Mycroft doubted there were any holdovers from so many years ago. He reached to the corner of the mattress and unhooked the edge of the fitted sheet._ _

__“There’s still a mattress protector on the bed, kiddo,” Mycroft said, relieved the mattress would at least not be ruined were Sherlock to wet himself. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to get some sleep. I’ll set an alarm for early in the morning, before anyone else will be awake, and I’ll come check on you. We’ll take care of any issues, then.”_ _

__“But My,” Sherlock said, voice a worried whine._ _

__“We’ll take care of it, ‘Lock,” he said, voice firm._ _

__He wasn’t sure how he would explain early-morning laundering to his parents were they to wake up, but the laundry was in the basement, and with any luck they would sleep until 8:30 or 9:00. If Mycroft set an alarm for 5:30, that should give him plenty of time to get Sherlock’s sheets washed, dried, and back on his childhood bed before they were any wiser._ _

__Sherlock seemed to resign himself to Mycroft’s plan, although it was obviously only exhaustion which was encouraging him to relent. He rubbed at his teary eyes with his fists, then yawned._ _

__“I want Dimitri,” Sherlock said as Mycroft began undressing his brother. The man was still in his trousers and dress shirt._ _

__“How about your thumb?” Mycroft suggested. “Would that make you feel better?”_ _

__Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft in shy surprise._ _

__“I’m not too big?” he asked, voice tentative._ _

__Mycroft helped Sherlock into a long-sleeved t-shirt the man brought along for pajamas, then held out the lounge pants for his brother to step into._ _

__“Not tonight, I don’t think,” Mycroft said. “I think you’re just small enough and away from home and no one could blame you for needing the comfort.”_ _

__Sherlock’s grateful, relieved expression was more adult than child, but a moment later he stood pulling on the bottom of his t-shirt with one hand as the thumb of his other made its way into his mouth._ _

__“Come on,” Mycroft said with a smile, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You need to go for a wee before bed.”_ _

__After a quick bathroom trip, Sherlock was settled once more on the too-small mattress, thumb settled firmly between his lips as Mycroft tucked the blankets around him._ _

__“Come get me if you need anything,” Mycroft said, leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. “I’m just down the hallway.”_ _

__It was all rather reminiscent of their childhoods: Mycroft putting Sherlock to bed before shuffling to his own room and sleeping lightly in case his kid brother had a nightmare or was thirsty or wet the bed._ _

__“Love you, My,” Sherlock mumbled after Mycroft had turned out the lights._ _

__“I love you, too, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said as he pulled the doorway mostly closed. “Merry Christmas.”_ _


	9. Slipping Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long, loves! I apologize! I was travelling, which was wonderful, but didn't give me any time to write. Hopefully I can make up for that over the next few weeks. 
> 
> This was originally part of a longer chapter, but the chapter switched perspectives in the middle, so I realized it made more sense to siphon off this section and then have the next chapter begin in a new perspective. The good news is that means the next chapter is already half written :) 
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos and comments--I apologize for getting behind in responding to them but promise to catch up. As always, let me know if you have any ideas you'd like me to try to incorporate. Thank you for reading and supporting. You're all the best!
> 
> xoxo

John woke to a gentle hand running across his shoulders in a steady, repetitive motion. It took him a moment to realize where he was, whose plush dog he was cradling to his chest, and who was responsible for the heavy weight on the edge of the mattress. 

“Time to wake up, sleepy-head,” Greg whispered. 

John could not help but whine, allowing himself another moment to be small. He knew as soon as he crawled from the bed he would feel obligated to play the gracious guest to Greg’s parents, to stand up tall and shake their hands and thank them for a lovely evening after complimenting the meal and their hospitality and their beautiful home. He wished he could be grouped with the other kids, that he could be carried outside with his thumb in his mouth where he would quickly fall asleep in the backseat of the car after Greg had pulled Willa from his suitcase. 

“Come on, ladybug,” Greg said, voice a bit louder now in an effort to rouse John more awake. “Let’s get you into the car so we can get you to my brother’s for a proper night’s sleep.”

John blinked hard in an attempt to come back into himself. He allowed Greg to help him sit up, then glanced towards the window. 

“Is it still snowing?” he mumbled, wiping saliva from his thumb onto his shirt and trying to ignore the pull to be small.

Greg brushed his hair back from his face and nodded.

“But not nearly as badly as it was earlier. It’s a short drive to my brother’s.”

“Can’t we stay here?” John asked. 

There was a comfort in having gained the lay of the land at Greg’s parent’s house; he knew where the bathrooms were and how to find quiet places for himself, and Greg’s mother had seen him verging on small and hadn’t batted an eye. The smaller part of John’s mind was nervous about going to a new place so late at night, particularly given that he wasn’t exactly feeling the sure-footed adult at the moment. 

“Not enough space, unfortunately,” Greg explained, voice sympathetic towards John’s exhaustion. “My two brothers and their kiddos have all the beds and couches spoken for. My oldest brother lives close, though, so we’ll get you all settled in no time.” 

John forced himself out from under the blankets, then placed the plush dog beside the pillow he’d been using.

“Do you want to take him with you?” Greg asked, nodding towards the beat-up old toy. “I’m not sure where he came from, exactly. But I’m sure he won’t be missed.”

John shook his head.

“I have Willa if I need her,” he said quietly, attempting to play down the fact that he already needed the silly plush rabbit, that he’d been longing to have her in his arms all day and the dog had been a poor attempt of a substitute. “Let’s go down and say goodnight to your parents.”

Greg seemed to see through John’s attempts at confidence. He glanced at him with sympathy, clicking his tongue in a way that signalled he disliked seeing John suffer. John knew he couldn’t fully indulge his smallness at the moment, but he was unable to keep from leaning into Greg’s chest. Greg accepted him immediately, wrapping him in the bear hug he needed and running a hand down his back. 

“I’m sorry it’s been such a hard day,” he said.

John had to hold back tears as the pain and stress of the day threatened to overwhelm him once more. Any other time he would have had a hard time asking for comfort while adult, but he wasn’t fully adult at the moment, and was feeling rather overwhelmed in his exhaustion. Even still, there was a limit to what he could currently accept by way of coddling. 

“Greg,” John warned.

Greg’s mom had been understanding, but John wasn’t under any delusions that the same would be true for every member of the Lestrade family were Greg to heft him onto his hip and carry John downstairs with his thumb in his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” Greg said, releasing John and taking a deep breath. “Okay, let’s get out of here and get you tucked away with Willa and your pajamas and a warm bed.”

John nodded, straightened out his rumpled clothing to the best of his abilities, then followed Greg downstairs, where he put on the front of adulthood while he exchanged a litany of pleasantries--thank you for having me and see you soon and Happy Christmas again and again--while Greg fetched their coats and hugged his family. 

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” Greg’s mother said in his ear when she hugged John goodbye. “You were so well behaved today. I’m sure Santa took notice.”

John could not help but blush at being spoken to like a child, but his smaller side was not far away, and it was as grateful for the praise as his adult side was embarrassed. 

It was a relief when John was alone in the car with Greg. Greg had guided him to the backseat, buckled him in, and swung around to the boot of the car before returning at John’s door with Willa. John was amazed by how comforted and small he felt as soon as he had her in his arms. 

“There’s my little bunny rabbit,” Greg said, smiling down at John and reaching to cup his cheek. “You doing okay, baby?” 

They both knew John wasn’t doing okay. He was exhausted and emotionally drained and had spent the entire day struggling against headspace. But, for the moment, John was safe with his Papa and happy to have Willa in his arms. He shrugged, then yawned, knuckling at an eye that was itchy with tiredness. 

Greg smiled sideways at the yawn before reaching for the window scraper in the footwell opposite Bunny. Closing Bunny in while the car warmed up, Greg began doing away with the snow that had accumulated in a blanket over the windshield and rear windows. 

“Rest your eyes, princess,” Greg said after kicking snow from his shoes and climbing into the driver’s seat in front of him. 

Bunny obeyed as they pulled out of the driveway, running fingers along the velvety soft underside of one of Willa’s floppy ears and listening to the soft notes of Christmas music Papa found on the radio. 

\----

It was a nightmare that woke John, a bloody, violently graphic nightmare that had him gasping for breath as he clutched at the sheets around him, eyes wet with tears as his heart pounded. It took him a moment to realize he had started to piss himself, and he grasped at his crotch as he hurriedly made his way out of the bed, contorting his body until he’d managed to gain control of his bladder with thankfully little more than sopping briefs and a few damp spots on his pajama pants, which were dark enough to mostly hide the wetness. 

There were a few panicked moments while he took in his unfamiliar surroundings, but he soon remembered he was in a guest room at Greg’s brother’s house. He caught his breath, hunched over with a hand still pressed between his legs, unable to keep the images from his mind. This time, Sherlock and Mycroft had been there, lying prone on the muddy ground, eyes unblinking. 

He sank onto the end of the bed, head in hands. The nightmare had jolted him into his hyper-aware adult self, but the smaller side of his mind was not far off, and his smaller side was desperate for Papa. 

There was a moment of struggling against the thought, but John was fed up with struggling. He needed to be small, damn anyone who thought otherwise. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself, reaching for the comfort of Willa before standing from the bed and crossing to the closed bedroom door. 

He was grateful for the nightlights plugged in along the dark hallway--no doubt placed there for the benefit of Greg’s nieces--as he made his way quietly but quickly so as not to disturb the girls. In his younger headspace, he held the somewhat irrational fear that his own nightmares would transfer to others were he not careful. He paused at the top of the staircase, listening for voices downstairs and hearing laughter and joyful conversation from Papa and Papa’s oldest brother. They were joking and reminiscing over something that apparently warranted a great deal of teasing of Papa. 

He hesitated, wanting Papa more than anything but afraid of Papa’s big brother, who was taller even than Daddy and Sherlock and who had big, square shoulders and strong arms. What if he didn’t like that John was small right now? What if he teased or yelled or noticed that Bunny had wet his pants a little? 

The floorboards squeaked as he shifted in place on the top step. He paused, praying he hadn’t been heard, but Papa’s brother had paused mid-sentence, which silenced Papa’s laughter. 

“It’s far past bedtime, little lady,” a voice called towards the staircase, authoritative and forewarning. 

Bunny blushed to the tips of his ears. He’d been mistaken for one of Papa’s nieces, chastised for being out of bed after lights out. He chewed on his bottom lip, not sure whether to call out and correct the mistake or to remain silent and do what he could to sneak back to the guest room. The entire situation made him feel terribly small. 

The decision was taken from his hands when Papa’s brother was suddenly approaching the bottom of the stairs. 

“Let’s get you back to--” the intimidating, bearded man paused as he caught sight of who was actually at the top of the steps, immediately realizing his mistake.

Bunny ducked his head, hunched where he stood as he pulled at the bottom of his t-shirt, holding Willa in one arm. He really should have stopped in the loo on his way down the hallway; the attention and the embarrassment were making him squirm. 

“John,” the man said, voice caught between surprise and amusement. “I’m sorry. I thought you were one of my daughters.”

But the man’s breath of laughter faded as Bunny refused to look up from where he gaze was fixed on the stairway. 

“John?” He asked, voice probing and now a bit confused, likely having registered the fact that a grown man was carrying around a plush toy. “Everything alright?”

And when Bunny finally looked up, tears in his eyes, Papa—thank god for Papa—was quickly circling around behind his brother, placing a hand on the taller man’s shoulder as he began climbing the steps.

“I’ve got him,” he said, seeming to jump immediately into problem-solving mode.

He made quick work of the steps to reach Bunny, who could not help but sink down onto the top step, collapsing further into himself as soon as Papa was close. He hoped Papa wouldn’t be disappointed that he was small while his brother was watching. But the harrowing images of his nightmare were still circling his mind, he was in a strange place, his pants were wet, and he just didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore. 

“I’ve got you, princess,” Papa said, sitting himself next to Bunny before cupping his cheek to raise his face and wipe at the silent tears. Papa kissed his forehead before circling his arms around his shaking body. “You’ll be alright, love. I’m here.” 

“How can I help?” Papa’s brother asked from his place at the bottom of the stairs, and Bunny was exceedingly grateful for the lack of judgment in his tone. 

“Water, I think,” Papa explained as he began helping Bunny to stand. “In a cup with a cover if you have one,” he added over his shoulder. 

Bunny felt a bit more grounded once they were closed in the hall bathroom Greg’s nieces shared, the bright light and colorful unicorn shower curtain helping to convince him there were most likely no hidden monsters ready to jump out and get him. 

And finally, in the safety of the space and in the comfort of Papa, he cried. He cried for his sister's thoughtlessness and for the stress of travelling. He cried for nightmares of Mycroft and Sherlock and for the shame of his wet pants. He cried for the warm family Greg had contrasting to the distant relations John barely knew any longer. He cried because he'd never known the type of Christmas Greg's mother had given to them all and because of the guilt he felt over wishing he'd been raised in the Lestrade household. But most of all, he cried because he wanted to be home, because there were too many worries to process at once.

"I'm here, little one," Papa said, holding him close as he rocked him were he stood. "Papa's right here, brave boy."

Bunny pressed his face into Papa's shoulder, grateful for his strength and consistency. There were still hours to go before he could be assured they were on their way home to Daddy and Sherlock and his own room and toys and familiar foods, but maybe if he could be small for just a little while, if he could let Papa take some of the decisions away from him for a time, everything could start to be okay.


	10. Brother to Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support, loves! Just another chapter or two and we'll have all of the boys back together again for their own little Christmas celebration. Easter had me buzzing with ideas for this series, but I figured we should finish Christmas before moving onto another holiday ;p! 
> 
> I'm debating between doing an in-depth christmas day at the Holmes house vs. the Lestrade house for each pair or just glancing over their mornings in order to get them all back to Mycroft's for their own Christmas celebrations. Let me know which you would prefer! 
> 
> I hope you are all doing well--sending bunny kisses!
> 
> xoxo

Greg had known it would be a challenge for John to remain adult given the stress of unfamiliar circumstances and the memory of his sister’s rejection. There were only so many hours he could be expected to put on a brave face given the sheer amount of effort required to navigate the over-saturated social gatherings of strangers. Greg was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had, and knew he had his mum to thank for keeping John mostly adult until they’d left for his brother’s. 

“Sorry, Papa,” Bunny sniffled, and Greg pulled the boy closer against him. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for, kiddo,” he said. “Papa’s got you. Everything’s alright.”

He rocked the boy where they stood in the hall bathroom, holding him close against his chest. It was a relief to have the kid in his arms. Yes, it would be easier were the kid to have sunk down in age when they reached Mycroft’s--where he could rock Bunny in the big rocking chair in the kid’s room and let him take comfort in the familiar surroundings of his forest-themed bedroom, but even in the present circumstances, Greg would rather Bunny than a hurting, conflicted John. 

There was a gentle knock at the bathroom door, and Bunny tensed in his arms. 

“It’s okay, lady bug,” Greg said, stepping back from the kid but cupping his cheeks and kissing his forehead. “You’re okay.” 

It was his older brother at the door, two sippy cups in hand. 

“Ariel or Elsa?” he asked, holding out the cups, each decorated with familiar images from The Little Mermaid and Frozen. “Cups with covers only come in the Disney princess variety in this house, I’m afraid.” 

“This is perfect, actually,” Greg said with the breath of a laugh as he reached for the Ariel cup. “Thank you.” 

His brother nodded, cast Greg a look that told him a conversation was due later, then told him to give a shout if he needed anything else. 

“Look what I have, my little mermaid,” Greg said after closing the door and turning back to Bunny. 

The kid nearly smiled, sniffling as he reached for the colorful cup.

“Okay, princess” Greg said as John drank. “Let’s get you sorted.” 

Bunny took the cup from his mouth and blushed, glancing down to the tile floor.

“Wet, Papa,” Bunny said quietly. “Sorry.”

Greg had already sensed that the kid had had a bit of an accident. His pajama trousers were dark, but the way the kid was holding himself and the fact that he’d woken from sleep and had come searching for help had clued Greg in to the potential problem. 

“No need to apologize, little one,” Papa said, pulling Bunny to his chest once more. “Is the bed wet, too?”

Bunny shook his head, which was a relief. He would never blame the kid for a wet bed, but being spared the challenge of changing soiled bed sheets while at his brother’s house was a blessing. 

“Good boy,” Greg said, catching the shifting of the kid’s hips that may signal why that was the case. “Do you still need the loo?” he asked, and Bunny was nodding before he’d even finished the question. 

“You should have told me, Bun,” he said, guiding the boy to the toilet at the far side of the bathroom and helping him with his pajama trousers and rather sopping underwear. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” 

The boy sat to pee, and Greg took the opportunity to strip him of his wet clothing, taking them to the sink to rinse. He would hang the clothes in the guest room to dry and keep from having to ask his brother about a load of laundry, which he knew John would never allow him to do for fear of being found out. 

“I want you to wait right here, kiddo,” Greg said after helping Bunny wash his hands. “Papa’s going to get some things from the car, okay?”

After being caught far too often with a regressed Sherlock or John and no supplies, Greg had taken the time to stock the boot of his car with items for emergencies. He had a good supply of pull-ups, spare clothes, and various comfort items for whenever one or the other of the boys needed them, and he was grateful for the option given John’s recent slip in age. 

But Bunny stopped him as he was turning toward the door. 

“I have them, Papa,” he said, voice even smaller than when he’d admitted to his wet pants.

“What’s that, baby?”

Bunny glanced at the floor, pulling at the hem of his shirt to cover the fact that he was standing half-naked after his little accident. 

“Pull-ups,” he mumbled. “Pacifier. Brought them.”

Greg stepped close to the boy, reaching to place a hand on either side of his face as he smiled down at him. Greg was far more used to the boys insisting they wouldn’t need to be small than he was to them proactively and maturely preparing for the possibility of aging down. It was the first sign that John was finally-- _finally_ \--growing more comfortable with the idea that his little side was simply a part of everyday life. Hell, the man had taken the time to pack pull-ups and pacifiers even while knowing he would be going to his sister’s house to meet her new girlfriend. It was all Greg could do not to smother the boy in kisses and call Mycroft immediately to inform him. 

“Papa is so, _so_ proud of you, big boy,” he said.

Bunny glanced up, and Greg could see the boy’s tentative smile beginning to overcome any lingering embarrassment.

“We’ll have to tell Daddy just how well-prepared you were, won’t we? Daddy admires forward thinking more than just about anyone, doesn’t he?” 

Bunny laughed, rubbing at the now-dried tear tracks down his cheeks as he nodded. 

Greg made quick work of getting Bunny sorted, finding John’s suitcase in the guest bedroom and the pull-ups, wipes, Peter Rabbit pacifier, and Gryffindor pajama trousers that the man had packed up into a smaller bag that had been shoved down beneath his toiletry kit. The boy was clean, dry, and calmly tucked into bed before long, practically beaming from the praise Greg showered on him along the way. John packing for not only himself but for Bunny--however scarce his Bunny bag may have been--was a large step, and the last thing Greg wanted to do was downplay it to the boy. 

He stayed until John had fallen asleep, telling him what he could remember of _The Night Before Christmas_ until the boy was breathing gently with Willa tucked beneath his chin and his pacifier between his lips.

Greg needed sleep, himself--especially after the day he’d had--but he knew there was a conversation that needed to be had with his brother before he could settle down next to Bunny for rest. 

He pulled the guest bedroom door behind him until it left only a sliver of light streaming to fall across the sleeping figure of his kid. Bunny looked beautifully innocent, a pacifier in his mouth and plush toy cradled to his chest, the worry lines smoothed from his forehead as he slept. Greg felt such a strong desire to protect him. He knew talking to his brother to do what he could to protect John’s pride was a part of that protection.

He found his brother where he’d left him at the kitchen table, the bag of crisps they’d been snacking on cleared away but a fresh beer left before Greg’s chair. His brother said nothing as Greg settled in the chair and opened the beer with a sigh, simply glanced at him with an eyebrow raised. The expectant expression was familiar, one his oldest brother had given Greg time and again while they were growing up, prompting Greg--always comforted by the knowledge and experience of his big brother--to share secrets and tell tales he otherwise would have guarded close. 

“I’m not sure how much he’d want me to share,” Greg began, conscious of speaking for John when the doctor wasn’t in the position to make decisions about what was told.

“Let’s not talk about John, then,” his brother said with a shrug, as self-assured as always. “Tell me about you.” 

“About me?” Greg asked, glancing up in confusion. 

His brother nodded, face stoic and unreadable. 

Greg had been envisioning a conversation about John, maybe Sherlock if it became necessary. He hadn’t begun to imagine he’d factor into the conversation. Then again, it was only in character that his brother was concerned about him first and foremost. Greg may be the adult around John and Sherlock, but he’d grown up as the baby of his family. 

“I, ah,” Greg began, turning the beer can in his hand. “I take care of them.”

“Them?”

Damn. So much for only bringing Sherlock into the conversation if necessary. 

“John and Sherlock,” he explained, thrown-off by the way in which past conversations with his big brother--delicate conversations about girlfriends, boyfriends, sex--reverberated into the current moment. “When they’re small.”

“When they’re small,” his brother repeated.

It was a tactic he’d used all his life to press without appearing forceful, parroting Greg’s statements back to him without additional comment. 

“Young,” Greg amended. “Sometimes they feel young.”

His brother’s eyebrows knitted together for a moment before he sat back in his chair and raised them once more, a silent command for Greg to continue. 

“It’s a coping mechanism,” he explained, and then, because he knew his brother was intent on sussing out Greg’s role in all of it: “It’s, ah, it’s nice to feel needed in that way.”

“Does Mycroft know about the arrangement?” his brother asked. 

Greg’s brother and his wife had split six months previous; Greg knew the man was consciously attempting to keep Greg from making the same mistakes he had. He would not be pleased were Greg keeping something from Mycroft, something with the potential to drive a wedge between them. 

Greg breathed a laugh, taking a deep drink from the beer can.

“Mycroft _facilitated_ ‘the arrangement,’” he explained, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

His brother nodded, clearly still taking in the information.

"How old are they?" he asked.

“John’s generally around 4 or 5,” Greg explained, trying to simplify what was actually a rather complicated question. “Sherlock’s age fluctuates. He likes to think of himself as 7 or 8, but he can just as easily be 2 or 15.”

“And it makes you happy?” his brother asked, “Looking after grown men as if they were children?”

From anyone else, Greg may have read judgement into the statement. From his brother, who dealt in honesty and bluntness as a default, however, he read only curiosity. 

“It’s just that...well, adulthood is such a practice in the masking of old wounds,” Greg said, putting the thought into words for the first time. “It can be nice to exist in a world where it isn’t shameful to deal in vulnerability.” 

His brother took in the information with a quiet hum of acknowledgement, scanning Greg’s face searchingly. 

“And are you ever...small?” 

“No,” Greg told him, pleased to be able to answer a question with such an easy, straightforward answer. “Mycroft and I care for Sherlock and John. I enjoy providing for them, being there for them to help them find a childhood neither of them had. I don’t feel the need to regress in age the way they do.”

“Is it sexual?”

Greg fought the urge to laugh off the question as a way to diffuse the awkwardness, but his brother was handling the conversation carefully and maturely; it was only right that Greg do the same. He took a breath and set his beer aside, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Not for Mycroft or myself,” he explained, forcing himself to meet his brother’s gaze. “But Mycroft is certain the dynamic plays into John and Sherlock’s sexual relationship.”

Greg knew John would be more than embarrassed were he to be awake and listening, but Greg trusted his big brother, and it was actually a relief to be able to share what had become such a large part of his life with someone he knew cared for and supported him. 

His brother nodded once more. There was a moment when Greg worried he wouldn’t say anything else, that the conversation would be ended as it stood, a door pulled opened but left ignored, cold air streaming into a once-warm home. But his brother shook his head and leaned back in his chair once more, a bit incredulous as he next spoke. 

“I _told_ Ma she didn't need to worry about you,” he said, smirking as an eyebrow quirked. “Look at you. You’ve found yourself your own little family.”

Greg smiled, releasing tension in his shoulders he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His brother stood and, yanking Greg from his chair, wrapped him in a hug. 

“I won’t pretend I fully understand it,” the taller man said, patting Greg on the back. “But I’m happy for you, Greggy.”

Greg could not help but grin from ear to ear. His brother’s approval had always meant the world to him, from congratulations on elementary school report cards to cheerful shouting in the stands at high school football games, and it was reassuring to know that even the most unconventional aspect of Greg’s life as it currently stood was sanctioned by his big brother. 

“Now,” his brother said, releasing Greg from the bear hug with a deep breath in. “I know you’ve usually the one setting bedtimes. But I’m sending you up to sleep. You look about ready to collapse.” 

Greg laughed, but did not object, nodding as he pushed in his chair at the table. He was exhausted and more than ready for bed. 

“We grew up pretty lucky, you know?” Greg asked as he allowed himself to be shepherded towards the staircase. “It’s taken all of this for me to start realizing.” 

“It’s not often you find parents like ours,” his brother said as he nodded in agreement, clapping Greg on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve found a way to pass along a bit of that luck.” 

\----

Greg made his way to the guest bedroom, happy at long last to climb into bed next to his little Bunny. 

“Hi, Papa,” Bunny mumbled sleepily as he rolled over to snuggle up against Greg.

“Hi, little bun,” Greg said, smiling as he brushed the hair from the boy’s face and held his dropped pacifier to his lips once more. “Go back to sleep, love. Christmas tomorrow.” 

He wrapped his arms around the boy and pulled him close, heart full. His big brother was right: they had found their own little family, unconventional but pure. It was a comfort to know it was only a matter of hours before Greg would have them all in his sights again, Christmas biscuits baking and fireplace roaring as he watched Sherlock categorize the proportionality of gifts wrapped in red paper versus green and helped Bunny into his new reindeer jumper before shushing the half-serious complaints of spoiling from Mycroft, who would be sitting with his shirt-sleeves rolled past his elbows and bourbon glass in hand, teasingly close to the mistletoe.


	11. A Difficult Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loves! It's been so, so long since I've updated! I am so sorry to have kept you all waiting for so long! Things have been insane over the past month--training for a new job, getting ready to move to a new location, and a final semester of grad school to finish up. I haven't been able to write as much as I would like, although I've been thinking up ideas for this story and for A Little Training, and your comments have definitely kept me thinking about this series and all of you lovely humans. 
> 
> There's good news in that the next chapter is almost fully completed, so I promise it will not be quite so long before I get you another update--my plan currently is to have that one posted by this upcoming Wednesday. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Hermione_Snape1894, who asked for a bit of encouragement to get through finals and a cold. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to follow-through until more than 20 days later, HermioneSnape, but I hope this chapter will still give you some comfort now <3 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me even when it takes me much too long to update!

To say that Mycroft had his hands full getting Sherlock to make it through Christmas Day was an understatement. His little brother had chosen to fight headspace with snarkiness, and was taking out his frustration and lack of confidence on their poor parents.

The overgrown child had curled himself in an armchair for the majority of the day, arms crossed over his chest as he mumbled derogatory comments under his breath. Each time one parent or the other took an action Sherlock classified as inane--their father tuning the radio to a station playing Christmas carols, their mother setting out cheese and crackers on Christmas platters, both of them answering phone calls from Aunts and Uncles and family friends requesting updates on Mycroft and Sherlock--the man rolled his eyes and breathed insulting comments. Eventually, it was only Mycroft’s pointed glares, which hinted at threats of spankings and exceedingly long time-outs once they were out of sight of their parents, that kept him from voicing his vitriolic comments. 

It was a relief when presents had been opened and the Christmas lunch plates had been cleared away. Their parents were reluctant, but Mycroft managed to usher Sherlock into the car earlier than expected with half-true excuses about work obligations.

Their mother saw through the lies, thanking Mycroft for taking care of his little brother when she hugged him goodbye. She told Sherlock she was glad he’d come, and Mycroft worried the kid would snap at her with something disparaging--praise being a bit of a divisive action when Sherlock was fighting headspace, but he simply shrugged and whined a bit in the back of his throat as Mycroft, laden with presents and far too many leftovers, ushered him out of the house.

“I don’t know what you think you were pulling in there,” Mycroft said as he reached to pull the seat-belt over Sherlock’s lap and shifted the car into reverse. 

He’d been keeping himself from full disciplinarian-mode out of fear Sherlock would break down, but now that they were alone he couldn’t resist an expression of his frustration over his brother’s actions. He placed a hand on the back of Sherlock’s headrest and twisted his body to look behind them as he began to back out of the driveway. 

“You’ve earned yourself a very long time-out when we get home,” he said. 

Sherlock turned to Mycroft with his mouth open, his face full of all the shock of someone who felt they’d been unjustly wronged. 

“What did I do?” he asked, voice loud and defensive. “I didn’t do anything!”

Mycroft could not help but emit a scoff of laughter as he shifted the car into drive, amazed by his little brother’s lack of self-awareness.

“If you don’t understand how your behavior impacted others this morning,” Mycroft said, quirking an eyebrow at the kid, “then maybe I need to lengthen that time-out significantly.” 

Sherlock crossed his arms with a huff, twisting from Mycroft to face his window.

“You’re mean,” Sherlock mumbled, but at least he was already young enough to leave it there. 

He let the kid have the derogation and did not chastise when he saw the kid stuff his thumb into his mouth. Had he been less exhausted by Sherlock’s moodiness, he would have pulled the car to the side of the road and pulled the kid over his knees. But he was more than ready to be back in London and his flat, back to Greg and the stability of his own environment. As long as Sherlock was relatively well-behaved for the car ride, the spanking could wait. 

\----

Sherlock’s mobile pinged with a text message as soon as Mycroft pulled onto the highway, and he wrestled it from his coat pocket.

_On our way back to London -JW_

Sherlock pulled the thumb from his mouth and wiped it dry on his trousers, not missing Mycroft’s glance. He was in enough an in-between-state of headspace that it wasn’t difficult to blink away the beginning stages of little space. He’d rather be an adult and talk with John than be little and deal with a grumpy Mycroft right now, anyway. 

_Us, too -SH_

They’d been texting periodically over the past day or so, quick updates and the occasional complaint or good-natured ribbing at the expense of Mycroft or Greg. Sherlock knew John was with Greg--he’d received the picture John sent of Greg’s high school football team, had teased teenage Greg’s long hair, grown nearly to his shoulders--but hadn’t received the full story of why he’d never made it to his sister’s flat. Neither he nor John were keen on carrying out long conversations through text-message, preferring to reassess and catch the other up in person, where they were free to undersell emotion and shrug away concerns in one of the most dysfunctional aspects of a relationship between two men rather averse to vulnerability.

Even still, they both had long drives ahead of them, and Sherlock would not have denied that he missed John’s presence. 

_Getting a bit sick of the overbearing attention from my ‘handler’ -SH_

_Tell me about it. Lestrade’s breathing down my neck. -JW_

_I’m surprised I’ve still got my phone -SH_

_Are you…? -JW_

_No. You? -SH_

_No. -JW_

Sherlock could see that John was typing, but then he seemed to think better of it, and stopped. Sherlock set the mobile in his lap, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in his chest which signalled that he wanted John at his side, big or small.

His mobile pinged again.

_Last night, though. -JW_

Sherlock wasn’t used to discussing ageplay through text; he and John were less than communicative about the subject even in person, preferring to allow actions to speak for them or, when they were small, to wait for Mycroft or Greg to facilitate any conversations that needed to be had between their smaller selves. Even on the rare occasions they were young without Mycroft or Greg, they rarely spoke about it afterwards. 

_Yeah. -SH_

Sherlock had tried all he could to keep from feeling young the night before, but his mind had been a messy jumble of missing Dimitri, longing for a pacifier, and feeling shame over such a strong desire for his comfort items. Not to mention he was scared to death he’d slip up and pee in bed if he fell asleep. 

Mycroft’s presence and his permission for Sherlock to suck his thumb helped a bit, but Sherlock had slept fitfully, and the vulnerable feeling persisted into the early morning hours, when he was woken by Mycroft far too early, thighs cold and wet. 

He’d leaned into the vulnerability out of convenience; it was far easier to deal with wetting his old twin bed at his parents’ house while he was little than while he was adult. He could cry and whine and cling to Mycroft in the laundry room without his brother so much as batting an eye. It had made aging up a rather difficult, too-quick affair, however, and he’d suffered the consequences all morning, living in a rather draining in-between state. 

_Lestrade’s brother saw. -JW_

_So? He doesn’t matter. -SH_

John cared far too much what others thought, placed too much stock in other’s opinions. It led to stress and an anxiety Sherlock hated to see the man suffer through. Sherlock wanted others to find out about his ageplay just as little as John, but, were it to be discovered, he wouldn’t waste more than a passing thought for the opinions of those who were rather insignificant in the grand scheme of his life.

_I know that. -JW_

Responding with defensiveness. Clearly, John’s doubt over the situation was tied up in a bit of shame, which meant Sherlock’s flippant response had likely not been the best tactic. Generally, it was John who helped him naviagate the too-complicated world of human interaction, which left Sherlock a bit out-to-sea when it came to his interactions with John himself. But they had been through similar scenarios in the past, adn he knew John would instruct him to say something encouraging, to validate his feelings and not cast them aside. 

_Forget it. See you in London. -JW_

Sherlock swore under his breath. John deserved to be fully supported, to have someone to turn to when he needed to talk. Sherlock had misread the situation and been too slow to rectify his mistake, and now John likely regretted ever having brought up his concern in the first place. 

He sighed, dropping his phone into the cup holder of the center console and feeling younger than ever. 

There was no use trying to text back. If he was going to put things right, he needed to read John’s facial expressions, his body language. He needed to see the man and reassure him in a way that he wasn’t able to from afar. 

“How much longer?” Sherlock asked, turning to Mycroft.

“Halfway there, now,” Mycroft said. “I can pull off at the next rest stop if you need it.” 

“I’m not a child, Mycroft!” Sherlock said, kicking out at the glove compartment and knowing even in the midst of his outburst that he wasn’t exactly proving his point.

Mycroft turned, eyes wide as he scanned Sherlock in frustrated amazement.

“Sherlock Holmes, are you purposefully trying my patience today?” he asked, tone veering towards anger. “Don’t think I’m above putting you over my knee on the side of the road. You’re clearly in need of some discipline.” 

Sherlock knew he’d been a brat, that he’d acted out and made the morning unpleasant for his parents and frustratingly difficult for Mycroft. But he couldn’t help it; everything felt like it was far too much. He wished he could be small, that his mind would stop racing with everything he’d done wrong over the course of the trip home. 

“What I’m _‘in need of’_ is some time away from you!” Sherlock sneered, reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt and climbing into the backseat, his long limbs jostling Mycroft as he kneeled on the center console to throw himself as far from Mycroft as was possible in the car.

“That’s it,” Mycroft said, changing lanes and taking the next exit.

Sherlock said nothing as Mycroft turned into the parking lot of a roadside restaurant and jerked the car to a stop in a far parking spot. He cut the engine and, climbing out of the driver’s seat only to open the door of the back-seat a moment later, joined Sherlock. 

“Come here,” Mycroft instructed, pulling the door closed behind him. 

Sherlock did not move. He knew Mycroft was serious and that he would only increase his punishment were he to dawdle. He also knew a spanking was the best path towards headspace at the moment. But pride was a hard thing to shake.

“Now, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Unless you’d like me to call your Papa and tell him how you’ve behaved today?” 

Sherlock was not fully young, not yet. But the thought of Mycroft calling up Greg to relay Sherlock’s poor choices had his heart pounding and his eyes watering. John and Mycroft were already annoyed with him; he didn’t want Papa to be, too. 

He threw a mini-fit in the seat that confirmed his quickly-devolving headspace, arching his back so his head hit against the headrest and whining in the back of his throat, but then he pulled himself together enough to crawl towards his brother and to drop himself over his knees, never more grateful for tinted windows than he was at the moment. 

“I can appreciate how difficult the past few days have been for you,” Mycroft said, shifting Sherlock’s position over his lap. “And I understand how drained you are after your most recent string of cases. But there’s no excuse for brattiness, and there is certainly no excuse for back-talk.”

Sherlock whined when the first spank hit, but he was rather eager to be put in his place. He didn’t want to regulate his emotions any longer, didn’t want to keep navigating an in-between headspace. 

“You’ve been testing my patience all day, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, peppering his statements with harsh slaps to Sherlock’s arse. 

His brother hadn’t bothered to yank down his underwear, but the cotton briefs did nothing to protect against Mycroft’s heavy hand. He writhed on Mycroft’s lap, feeling tears spill over onto his cheeks as he struggled against the welcomed pain. For a brief few minutes, he was outside of his mind, nothing but pain and remorse and the promise of eventual comfort. 

“You need to realize how your behavior impacts those around you,” Mycroft said, pausing for a moment while Sherlock twisted his neck to glance up at him.

“‘M sorry,” the boy sniffled.

“Feeling small is not an excuse for brattiness,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded, then braced himself as Mycroft began spanking once more. His skin felt raw, and each slap stung until he felt numb and pliable. He was young by the time Mycroft decided he was finished, wiping tears from his eyes as Mycroft sat him up and helped him back into his trousers.

“Alright, kiddo?” Mycroft asked as he wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Sherlock sniffled, but nodded. He was finally young without the prospect of having to hide his mindset, but with the embrace of headspace came an emotional vulnerability, and his face fell as he dissolved once more into tears.

“Hey, hey, what’s this?” Mycroft asked, pulling Sherlock closer to him. “Come here, ‘Lock. It’s going to be okay.” 

Sherlock allowed himself to be cuddled, pressing his face against Mycroft’s chest as he cried. 

“Tell big brother what’s wrong,” Mycroft prodded, brushing tangled curls out of Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock wiped at his eyes with the palms of his hands and then hid his face once more against Mycroft’s dress shirt. He may be small, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ashamed of the worries circling, worries he’d been struggling against all day. 

“Use your words,” Mycroft said, gently guiding Sherlock away from him so he could look him in the eye. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“It’s dumb,” Sherlock mumbled, pulling at his bottom lip. “You’ll think…”

“What will I think, love?”

“I-irrational,” Sherlock said, stumbling over the word before ducking his head and fiddling with the hem of his shirt. 

His worries were indeed irrational, even his seven-year-old self could see that. Had he been fully adult, he would have laughed at them. But irrational as they were, he hadn’t been able to shake the thoughts from his mind, couldn’t keep them from making him feel weepy and sad and anxious.

“Any concern you have is valid,” Mycroft said, tipping the boy’s chin so that he could see his face. “Irrational or not.”

Sherlock sniffed and ducked his head once more, but he glanced up at Mycroft tentatively.

“Dimitri’s all alone,” he mumbled, voice quiet but on the edge of breaking. “He h-hates me because I left him all alone at Baker street.” 

Mycroft shushed Sherlock as his breath hitched on a sob.

“And I-I didn’t want to have an accident because it was Christmas Eve,” he continued. “And I didn’t mean to, but I woke up w-wet, and Santa watches on Christmas Eve. And what if he saw me and thought I was b-bad?”

“Buddy,” Mycroft said, rubbing the boy’s back. “You know you’re not a bad boy for having an accident.”

“But now John’s mad at me, too,” Sherlock said, jumbling all of his worries into one long stream-of-consciousness explanation. “And you think I’m a bad boy, and so does Santa, and Papa will when you tell him how I acted, and even Dimitri’s never going to talk to me ever ever again!”

Sherlock knew he was working himself up into a right state. He was having a hard time catching his breath, and he was getting precariously close to wailing. He cried into his hands, not registering the words Mycroft was saying until he felt himself pulled into his big brother’s lap and could settle into the man’s arms when they wrapped tight around him. He realized after a moment that Mycroft had stopped talking, that he was simply rocking him back and forth. And that he was humming.

Sherlock focused on the melody his brother was humming, letting it slowly calm him as he followed its notes. Eventually, he no longer felt such a heavy weight on his chest, and he could breathe normally once more. He slipped his thumb into his mouth and rested his ear against Mycroft’s, feeling the vibrations of his chest as he continued to hum. 

“You’re alright, string bean,” Mycroft said at long last. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock did not respond, feeling small and safe for the first time in months of cases and holiday plans. 

“I know you’re feeling very little right now,” Mycroft said, continuing to rock him in his arms, “But I do want to address your concerns. First of all, Dimitri’s job is to keep you safe and happy. He could never hate you, especially for something as small as letting him have a few restful days with his friends at Baker street.”

Sherlock lifted his head to catch Mycroft’s eye, and was comforted by just how sincere he looked.

“Secondly, you know you’re not a bad boy for wetting the bed. Santa understands that little boys have accidents from time to time. That doesn’t make them naughty.”

Sherlock snuggled close against Mycroft, trusting that that man knew Santa better than he did. When they were kids, he’d always managed to get messages to Santa about what Sherlock wanted for Christmas. 

“Lastly, your Papa and your brother are very much looking forward to seeing you when we get to London, and anything that happened between you and John can be worked out with just a little bit of conversation and understanding.” Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “As for me, I believe you made some naughty choices this morning, but I do not think you are a bad boy. You are a good boy who made some poor decisions. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded, currently feeling as if he would agree to anything if it meant he could stay cradled in his big brother’s arms.

“What do you say we get you home?” Mycroft asked after some time.

Sherlock was pulled from a rather sleepy state by Mycroft’s question. He glanced out the window to see that a light snow had begun to fall. The parking lot was beginning to be coated with a light whiteness. It made everything feel somehow cozier, and his mind felt blissfully quiet. Sherlock sniffled and nodded, sitting up to let Mycroft free. 

Mycroft made a quick trip to the boot of the car, returning with a blanket which he wrapped Sherlock in before buckling the boy in the back seat. Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of being wrapped tight and warm, only wiggling his arms a bit in order to get to his thumb, which he placed into his mouth before leaning up against the door of the car. 

“See if you can get some rest, little one,” Mycroft said as they pulled out of the parking lot. “We’ll be home soon.” 

Sherlock nodded, allowing himself to sink into the comfort of the blanket and his thumb and Mycroft’s care. It had been a difficult few days, but he was headed back to London and to John and Papa.

"My, do you think Santa came to London?" Sherlock asked, the thought striking him as he thought about how wonderful it would be to be home at Mycroft's with John and Papa and Dimitri.

"I think the likelihood of that is fairly high, kiddo," Mycroft said, smiling at Sherlock as he glanced at him through the rear-view mirror.

Sherlock smiled as he sunk down into the blanket wrapped around him. He hadn't been the most well-behaved boy over the past few days, but he could not help but think about brightly-wrapped packages placed beneath the Christmas tree Papa had convinced Mycroft to begrudgingly purchase and set up in the living room. Maybe Christmas wouldn't be so bad, after all.


	12. Roadside Reassurance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me far longer to update than I'd expected! I had a really tough time figuring out the ending of this chapter. I'm not entirely happy with it, but at least it's finished! Full disclosure that it's an unedited chapter, so apologies for any mistakes. Just one or two more chapters left in this story before I plan to turn my attention back to A Little Training. Life is a bit crazy, as I'm sure it is for all of you as well, but I promise I'm writing when I can. 
> 
> I also want to apologize for not responding to all of your lovely comments--I let myself get behind, but I promise I will catch up soon! 
> 
> Send me all of your suggestions for the last chapter or two of this story--I'm planning for basically just sappy, sugary Christmas fluff with the boys all back together. 
> 
> I hope you're all doing well--sending bunny kisses! xoxo

John had woken up big, stripped himself of the dry pull-up, and taken a shower while Greg packed up their things. The kid was quiet and brooding all morning, and Greg could tell as they sat around watching the girls open their Christmas morning presents that Bunny was not far away. A drop into headspace was inevitable--the embarrassment John clearly felt over showing his smaller side the night before would only speed up the process, so Greg had the boy out of his brother’s house as soon as possible without seeming rude, wanting to save what was left of the man’s dignity.

“Do you want to get your things from your bag before we go?” Greg asked as John climbed into the passenger seat, alluding to Willa and his pacifier, maybe even a pull-up if the kid was feeling a little unsure of himself. 

“Later,” John said, pulling the seat belt across his chest. “Maybe when we stop.”

“You sure?” Greg clarified. “Might make things a bit easier during the trip.” 

“Greg,” John said, turning to the man with a pointed glance that signalled he was in no mood for coddling. “Just drive.” 

Greg sighed, but, after making a silly face at his nieces who were pressed against the glass of the living room window to say goodbye, he shifted the car into reverse, and they were on their way. 

Greg understood John’s eagerness to get back to London; the kid had been working increasingly hard over the past day and a half to keep himself adult, meaning it would be difficult to allow himself to fully slip until they’d put a bit of distance between themselves and Greg’s family. Even so, Greg hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with the man’s moodiness for the entire trip home.

The man was aloof throughout the ride, on his mobile but otherwise still. Greg knew John Watson, could read the worry in the man’s silence, the discomfort in the way he held himself. If John was anything, he was an overthinker, particularly when it came to what he perceived as failings on his part. There was no doubt in Greg’s mind that the kid had spent the better part of the drive re-playing the events of the past few days, cycling through the moments he perceived to be signs of weakness: calling Greg to pick him up from the train station, being put down for a nap by Greg’s mother, and especially finding himself face to face with Greg’s older brother, after a nightmare and near accident.

“Doing alright?” Greg asked when they’d pulled to a stop at a gas station off the highway.

The kid seemed to take in their surroundings slowly once he glanced up from his mobile, as if just realizing they’d pulled off the highway. 

“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat after his voice came out quiet, bordering on small. 

Greg looked at him pointedly.

“Would you like me to grab your suitcase from the back? You can sleep for a while if you want.” 

“Don’t need it,” John said shortly before climbing out of the passenger seat and heading towards the service station, presumably to use the loo. 

Greg was unsure whether to push the man or let him be. He was grateful he hadn’t had to encourage the kid to go inside to pee--in John’s current in-between headspace he would likely have been offended by the suggestion--but there were other concerns on his mind, namely what he guessed to be self-deprecating thoughts spinning through the man’s mind.

He was conscious of the items he’d earlier re-packed into John’s suitcase, the plush rabbit and pacifier and remaining pull-up, and took the opportunity while the man was inside to take John’s suitcase from the boot of the car and place it in the backseat, where it was more easily accessible. He knew the man would settle quickly if he would just accept his comfort items, that they could help him stop obsessing over the shame and doubt of the past 24 hours and allow him the escape he so desperately needed.

“Listen,” Greg said when he’d finished paying at the counter inside and had climbed back into the car with John. “I know yesterday wasn’t easy. But you did good.” 

John scoffed, dismissing Greg’s praise. 

“Let’s drop it, alright?” John asked, pulling his mobile from his coat pocket to keep from having to look at Greg. “I’d like to just forget it.” 

Greg sighed and turned the key in the ignition. The kid had been under a great deal of stress; he could forgive a bit of dismissiveness for a time. 

But as he began to pull out of the gas station, John caught sight of the duffel bag in the back seat, and he glanced up in irritation.

“I don’t need that,” John said, a tell-tale anger to the edge of his voice as he twisted his head over a shoulder to glance at the offending object. “Put it back.” 

Greg ignored John’s protests, beginning to pull out of the gas station. If the kid was upset about even having the suitcase close-by, he must really be fighting against headspace.

“You don’t have to take anything out of it if you don’t want to,” Greg explained, remaining as calm as possible as he turned onto the road, contrasting John’s building frustration in a tactic he generally reserved for the more volatile Sherlock. “It’s there just in case.”

“I don’t want it there,” John said, voice tougher, more forceful. 

But Greg did not respond, and there was a catch in the kid’s throat when he next spoke. 

“I don’t need it,” he said, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. 

And then there were tears, the kid sniffling and then breaking down, caught in some spiral of emotion that had finally caught him off-guard. Greg quickly made his way into a parking lot, grateful they had not yet made their way onto the highway. 

“Alright, buddy,” he said, shifting the car into park and taking off his seatbelt in order to turn himself fully towards the kid. “Talk to me.” 

It was clear that John was in the final stages of aging down, that he’d at long last lost the ability to put on a brave face of maturity. 

“You did nothing wrong yesterday,” Greg said, voice soft but assured as he placed a hand on the kid’s knee. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

The voicing of shame seemed to have the opposite effect of what Greg had intended, brightening John’s cheeks in embarrassment as the kid hunched his shoulders and cried harder. Greg reached to the backseat, pulling the duffel onto the center console. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the plush rabbit before rooting around for the pacifier, knowing it would likely be needed before long.

“Can you talk to me, buddy?” Greg asked, voice gentle. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” 

John seemed unaware that he’d spoken, eyes firmly glued to the plush rabbit, so Greg passed the plush toy to the boy, whose tears seemed to lessen a bit when he had it in his arms. 

“They saw,” Bunny mumbled at last, voice barely audible as he sat hunched, arms wrapped around the plush toy clutched to his chest. “They weren’t supposed to know.” 

“Kiddo, they loved you. All parts of you.”

It was true. Greg’s family was not exactly picky when it came to welcoming people into their homes, but they had clearly been enamored with John. Even if they hadn’t sought Greg out to tell him how wonderful they found the man, he would have known from their eagerness to interact with him, from the stories and jokes they shared with him, the hands clapped on his back when they said their goodbyes.

“But they _saw_ ,” he said, throat tight with shame and voice catching on tears. “They _know_.”

Greg wished they were closer, wished he could pull the kid into his lap. As it was, all he could do was squeeze the boy’s knee in reassurance. 

None of John’s shame about ageplay was new, but that didn’t mean Greg had become skilled at quelling it. They’d had the conversations many times before: conversations reassuring the boy that there was nothing wrong with needing comfort, conversations intent on convincing the man that there was nothing wrong with acting the kid for a time if it brought comfort and routine to what was generally a rather chaotic life. 

Greg knew they could repeat a similar conversation now, that they’d play out a scene they’d rehearsed many times before and that John would be momentarily comforted. But he’d been suspecting that the go-to statements were rather ineffective at altering the diatribe of hatred and disapproval that ran through John’s mind when he was feeling insecure. He may be doing the boy a disservice by being so focused on moving away from discomfort. Perhaps there were benefits to existing in the pain and shame; perhaps the only way out was through.

“Does it scare you?” Greg asked. “Having them know?”

When the boy glanced up, finally making eye contact, Greg knew he’d surprised John by leading them into new territory. They’d both become accustomed to the routine assurances. 

“Yeah,” he said, nodding as he wiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

“What about it scares you?” Greg asked, squeezing the boy’s knee again to encourage him.

Bunny ran his fingers along the soft fur of Willa’s ear.

“They might make fun of me,” he mumbled, as if embarrassed to say the words. “They’ll think I’m bad, and they’ll forget about everything except that.” 

Greg nodded, understanding the kid’s fears. 

“But is that what happened?” he asked, wanting to establish a disconnect between the kid’s fears and the reality of the situation. “Did they make fun?”

Bunny glanced up at Greg and shook his head slowly, but his eyes shone with new tears.

“But what if they were just being nice?” he asked, social anxieties and insecurities clearly at the forefront of his mind. “What if they never look at me the same?” 

Greg reached to cup a hand around the back of John’s head, grounding him and letting the kid know he was there for him. 

“You’re right that they might view you differently than if they’d never known you were little,” he said, knowing he needed to be as honest as possible if they were going to make any progress. “But, in time, they’ll see that your little self is just one part of who you are, and that it doesn’t change who you are when you’re big.”

Bunny sniffled but nodded, unbuckling his seat belt and leaning across the center console until his head was resting on Greg’s chest.

“As for making fun, you can be assured that if my big brother starts any of that, my mum will have him in the corner faster that you can say ‘time out.’”

Bunny breathed a quiet laugh, and Greg carded his fingers through the boy’s hair. It was longer than usual given the relentless pace of cases that had kept him and Sherlock from anything not crime-related for quite some time.

“I’m proud of the way you handled yourself while away from home, kiddo,” Greg said. “You prepared for the potential of being small, and you allowed yourself times of comfort when it all got to be too much.” 

Bunny shrugged, but Greg could sense him calming. He allowed the boy to take what comfort he needed, holding him as close as was possible in the space of the car.

“Let’s get you home, champ,” he said after a time, patting the boy’s back to signal that he needed him to sit up. 

Bunny whined, accepted the pacifier Greg offered him, but then tried to snuggle back against Greg’s chest. 

“None of that, now,” Greg said, chuckling at the boy’s clinginess. “Your Daddy and Sherlock are waiting for us. You don’t want your brother to open all the presents from Santa, do you?”

Bunny’s eyes seemed to light up at the prospect of presents. No one else would have known to look for it, but Greg had seen the glances of longing John had cast towards Greg’s nieces and nephews as they’d opened their presents from their grandparents the night before. He’d been dying to tell the man then and there that there were toys waiting for him at home, wrapped in Christmas paper and hidden in the closet of the guest room. He’d been waiting to put them out beneath the tree, waiting for their little family Christmas. 

“Sherlock can’t open my presents, Papa!” he said, suddenly animated. “Santa brought them for _me_.”

Greg chuckled again, patting the boy’s knee to calm him after reaching across his chest and clicking his seat belt back into place. 

“I was only joking, princess,” Greg explained, turning the key in the ignition. “I promise no one’s opening any presents until we’re all together.”

They were soon making their way back toward London, John babbling to Willa in half-coherent statements, wondering about the presents Santa may have brought and telling stories of Santa's reindeer. It was a relief that the kid had finally given into headspace, but Greg was eager for Mycroft and Sherlock and home, eager for them all to be together. Greg had been planning their little family Christmas for weeks, had set aside the stockings and the ribbons and the gingerbread biscuits. It had been a tough few days, but he finally had the chance to spoil the kids rotten, and he was planning to take full advantage of the opportunity--no matter how much Mycroft teased.


End file.
